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DEDICATION 


TO THE EVER FAITHFUL IRISH GIRLS IN AMERICA, 
WHOSE AFFECTIONATE DEVOTION TO THEIR KITH AND 
ION IN THE OLD LAND, 

HAS PROVED THAT VIRTUE AND CHARITY, 

THE RESULTS OF PIOUS AND CAREFUL TRAINING IN 

YOUTH, 

ARE UNLESSENED BY DISTANCE AND END ONLY WITH 

LIFE ITSELF, 

THIS VOLUME IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY 


THE AUTHOR. 























■ 































































PREFACE 


At the suggestion of Patrick Donahoe, Esq., the emi- 
nent Irish and Catholic Publisher of America, and aided 
by his wise experience, the Author devoted himself for 
a short time to the production of this volume. 

The Story is necessarily a simple one, although it is to 
be hoped that the style and aim of the writer will prove 
sufficiently attractive to redeem the book from the charge 
of weakness or tameness. 

Those who have made the question of which it treats, 
a study for themselves or others, cannot fail to recog- 
nize in these pages a few, at least, of the startling truths 
which it reveals. 

Emigration from Ireland to America has not been, and 
is not, either a permanent or an unmixed good. True, 
it has given to many the means of a better material ex- 
istence, sometimes, it must be acknowledged, at a fear- 
ful cost, namely — the loss of faith. From this it must 
not be inferred that a large number of Our Irish Girls 
have fallen from their religion, or, the practise of those 
virtues which adorned them at Home. Whatever expe- 
rience I possess — and I flatter myself it is somewhat ex- 
tensive — leads me to an opposite conclusion ; and I am 
happy and proud at the opportunity thus afforded me, of 
bearing my impartial and unprejudiced testimony to the 
pleasing fact, that our emigrant girls have, in the face of 
many troubles and vexations, heroically adhered to that 
Faith, and to those rare virtues which were their dis- 
tinguishing traits in Ireland. Even some of our best 
intentioned writers, from some cause or another which 

5 


vi Preface. 

appears plain to no one but themselves, have lamented 
the fall of the poor Irish emigrant from the high, estate 
of virtue and religion. It is not true. If, in this in- 
stance, we look for angelic perfection, we shall be disap- 
pointed as we would in any other case ; but if I am to 
believe the evidence of my own senses, and the willing 
testimony of many good pastors, I emphatically assert 
that the emigrant Irish girl, taking that body as a whole, 
is equally as careful of her religious training and the du- 
ties of her state, as the most ardent friend could desire. 

There is a very prevalent fallacy in Ireland on mat- 
ters under this head. Some people there believe that 
life in America is destructive of morality. This betok- 
ens either a want of faith or ignorance. In nearly 
every instance, the opportunities of attending to all es- 
sentially religious duties in America are just as good as 
at home. There are some exceptions undoubtedly ; but 
these very exceptions are as much in favor of America, 
as others may be in favor of Ireland. 

It would be folly to deny that temptations in our large 
cities, and those especially on the eastern seaboard, are 
more numerous than may be found in the towns of Ire- 
land. That only proves that in the midst of a teeming 
population, there is more vice and wretchedness than 
in the smaller country towns and country places where 
temptations less abound. The genuinely true hearted 
Irish girl is safe wherever she goes. Her virtue is a 
wall of adamant, supported by the Sacraments of the 
Church, which are as effectual here as elsewhere . 

We would guard the Irish maiden, whether alone or 
protected; and we feel confident that the perusal of this 
book will afford something to feel thankful for, whether,, 
on the part of ourselves or others. 

The title of this book is divided as to Ownership. 
There is not much in that, but I choose to notice it here. 


Vll 


Preface. 

“ The Lost Rosary ” belongs to the Author ; “ Our Irish 
Girls, their Trials, Temptations and Triumphs,” belongs 
to the Publisher. 

The very title is indicative, in some measure at least, 
of the nature and character of the Story. 

I am not aware that the subject has been treated by 
others. It is a fruitful theme ; and a vast, unexplored 
field is still open for others to cultivate. The majority 
of our Irish Girls are honest hard workers. Their 
leisure time for pleasant or instructive reading is rather 
limited. This, in itself, is an evil ; and all such evils re- 
coil, less or more, on the heads of families and others 
in whose employment they are engaged. 

I trust it will not be deemed impertinent in the Author 
of this volume to bespeak at the hands of the employ- 
ers, and especially Catholic employers, of our Irish Girls, 
a careful and kindly supervision, which will include op- 
portunities of attending to religious duties. Such kind- 
ness brings its own reward, besides fostering virtue in 
the minds of those whom we are bound to protect. Op- 
portunities should be given for reading and for learning 
to read ; and I venture to hope that heads of families, 
and guardians of children, will freely give all the aid in 
their power to have this book widely circulated. 

Those who know the Author, will readily understand 
that there is no motive of selfishness in thus desiring a 
large circulation for such a work. Higher and, I trust, 
nobler aims were kept before the Author’s mind, in bring- 
ing out the work. It is difficult to speak on this deli- 
cate point, for the world is so fast verging on universal 
materialism, that the best motives and the best acts of 
some are misunderstood. 

I bespeak for this book a kindly reception, therefore ; 
and I hope that our Irish Girls will profit by every line 
of what is written specially for their benefit. 


viii Preface. 

The general reader will not, I hope, feel less interest in 
following the history of the LOST ROSARY, any more 
than the class for whose benefit the volume is produced. 

We all require encouragement in the discharge of our 
duties in life. 

I have endeavored to do so in my line,— will the PUB- 
LIC — that great guide and mover of men’s minds — afford 
me some in return? There are many hard days of trial, 
in writing a volume, when every thought and word has 
to be carefully weighed, before it is put on paper; so 
that virtue and goodness of heart may be rendered beau- 
tiful for their own sakes. Compensation for all this, is 
seldom looked for in the commercial transaction that 
calls forth the work ; at least, it is not so in this instance ; 
but due compensation is afforded by the spread of the 
writer’s views, as an antidote to the filthy and deadly 
poison that issues in streams from the immoral and 
irreligious press of this country. 

I feel confident that the Catholics of America do not 
sufficiently, as yet, realize the enormity of the evils that 
result from an impure literature. Many of them do ; but 
we should one and all do our part. Carelessness in this 
respect, is an unpardonable omission. 

Should the present volume succeed in banishing some 
portion of the prevalent bad literature from the family 
circle, where it may inadvertently have obtained admis- 
sion, and, above all, should it be the means of pointing 
the right way or guarding against evil in any shape, the 
Author will rest satisfied that his labor has not been per- 
formed in vain. 

CON O’LEARY. 

New York, Sept., 1869. 


CONTENTS 


Dedication. 

Preface. page 

Introductory Dialogue 1 

CHAPTER I. 

May Eve — Sports of the Peasantry 9 

CHAPTER II. 

The Dance in Corny’s Barn, and What Came of it 17 

CHAPTER III. 

Match-making Extraordinary, and how it was conducted. 25 

CHAPTER IV. 

A Conversation and a Plan not Understood — Private 

Motives and their Cause 3t 

CHAPTER V. 

Different Views of Different Parties — One Cause for all. 40 

CHAPTER VI. 

An Explanation — A Gift and an Advice — Voluntary Sac- 
rifices 46 

CHAPTER VII. 

At Sea — Old and New Acquaintances 53 

CHAPTER VIII. 

A Storm at Sea — Reflections thereon 59 

CHAPTER IX. 

A Picture of a Deserted Father — Farmer Clarkson’s 

Sickness and Death — A Revelation 66 

CHAPTER X. 

Moll Hanley’s Advice to the Young Girls — Barney and 
Tim Fall in with new Friends — Alick and Mrs. 

M’Sweeney 72 

CHAPTER XI. 

Separation of Friends — Barney in a New Sphere 87 

CHAPTER XII. 

Change of a Name and its Consequence — A Scene in 

which Moll Hanley Acts a Part 83 

CHAPTER XII r. 

Ailey’s First Trials — The Lost Rosary and Mary’s Grief. . 89 

CHAPTER XIV. 

The Famine Period — Death of Corny O'Donnell 96 

9 


X 


Contents, 


CHAPTER XV. PAGE 

Unaccountable Break-off in American Correspondence — 

Hard Times for some People 104 

CHAPTER XVI. 

In the Fever Wards — A Glimpse of the Long-lost Rosary. 110 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Troubles of the Rev. Ebenezer Sookes — What it is to 

have but one housekeeper 116 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

A Scene in a House where a Scene shouldn’t be — Mrs. 

McGlone’s Experiences 123 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Mary and Ailey land in America — Their First Experi- 
ence 131 

CHAPTER XX. 

A Sad Picture — What Mary and Ailey Escaped 138 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Mary finds a Place — Ailey ’s Desire for Work — Moll Han- 
ley the Comforter 145 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Moll Hanley’s Story 152 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

Strange Incident in a Graveyard — Finding of the Long- 

lost Rosary 159 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

Maiy and Ailey with their new Friends — A Surprise 106 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Death of Jenny Clarkson 173 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

Singularity of Dreams — A Lost Lover Found 181 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

A Pleasant Party — Tim Ileggarty makes free — lie Meets 

Old Friends 189 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Meeting of Mary and Barney — A Pleasant Night of it. . . 197 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

Marraige of the Rev. Ebenezer Sookes to his intended 

Wife’s Daughter — A Breach of Promise Case 204 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Weddings by the Pair — A Pair of Weddings 211 

Conclusion 218 


INTRODUCTORY DIALOGUE, 

NOT EXPECTED TO BE UNDERSTOOD UNTIL THE READER 
HAS FINISHED THE STORY. 

“ 1 would not give my Irish wife 
For all the dames of the Saxon land— 

I would not give my Irish wife 
For the Queen of France’s hand: 

For she to me is dearer 
Than castles strong, or lands, or life,— 

In death I would lie near her, 

And rise beside my Irish wife.” 

“ Good evening, O’Leary.” 

“ Good evening, Mac.” 

“ Still busy at work, I see.” 

“ Doing a little, occasionally.” 

“ What are you up to now ? ” 

“ Nothing particular— just thinking a little. I had the 
pleasure of a very lengthened conversation with Mrs. 
McAuley to-day, and I have been ruminating over it.” 

“ She’s a fine woman, is Mrs. McAuley. I rather like 
that daughter of hers ; that is, when she is dressed up of 
an evening. But, hang it, she looks very like a country 
maid during the day, with her arms bare to the shoul- 
ders, and as red as carrots.” 

“ Yes, she is healthy. Smart, too, don’t you think ? ” 

“ Well, after a fashion.” 

“Do you think she looks like one who would give 
much for your opinion of her ? ” 


2 Introductory Dialogue. 

“ ’Pon my word, I never gave as many thoughts about 
the girl before. But what are you driving at ? Are you 
quizzing me ? ” 

“ O, dear, no. I’m only wondering what the young lady 
would think if she heard you.” 

“ Heard me ! Why, I believe she would be very highly 
pleased with any notice I might deign to offer her.” 

“ Most likely.” 

“ Look here, now. There you sit, O’Leary, in that con- 
founded old machine of a chair of yours, wrapped up in 
your antiquated notions of things, not fit to understand 
a fellow, and persistently humbugging me whenever I 
speak a word.” 

“ Heavy charges, Mac, very heavy.” 

“ Well, why ; but you think and speak like an ordinary 
mortal ? ” 

“ I don’t choose.” 

“No. You don’t choose, because you cannot. You 
never go out of an evening. I never saw you, not even 
once, pitch your work overboard for a day, and mix in 
an hour’s gaiety.” 

“ How long is it, Mac, since I first saw you? ” 

“ About a year, I suppose.” 

“About a year! — and your unmitigated puppyism 
makes you talk to me in that fashion. Why, my good 
fellow, I have mixed more in society— and, what is bet- 
ter, to some advantage — in six months, than you have 
done in all your life.” 

“ I know you have. I was only jesting, and you knew 
it.” 

“ To be sure, I knew it. But, didn’t I see your usual 
vanity spread itself over your nostrils, when speaking of 
Miss McAuley.” 

“ I wouldn’t give a dollar for the girl.” 

“ Nor she a cent for you.” 

“ I'm not sure of that.” 


3 


Introductory Dialogue. 

“ There it is again.” 

“ There’s what again ? ” 

“ Why, your vanity, of course.” 

“ O, bother ! vanity ! I want no lecturing. Come, are 
you for a spell to-night ? ” 

“Where?” 

“ At the Athenaeum.” 

“ What’s up ? ” 

“A lecture on ‘Woman’s Rights,’ by a glorious crea- 
ture.” 

“ On ‘ Woman’s Rights ? ’ ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I’m your man.” 

“ At 8 o’clock.” 

“All right.” 

******* 

Next morning, I received another visit from friend 
Mac. He was one of those who are easily caught by the 
noise and glare of new questions. He was also a sort of 
stickler for this thing called “ Woman’s Rights,” and I 
determined to have a turn with him on his pet subject. 
In he walked. 

“By Jove, O’Leary, I’m as proud and as glad as possi- 
ble, that I had the good luck to mention about the lec- 
ture to you yesterday. I saw you were pleased, but my 

engagement with Miss , deprived me of calling for 

you, and of hearing your opinion when all was over, 
about what you saw and heard. How did you feel ? ” 

“ Disgusted ! ” 

“ At what ? ” 

“ At all I saw and heard.” 

“ Ahem ! You weren’t disgusted with the company, I 
hope?” 

“ Most decidedly.” 

“And you, yourself, one of the party?” 

“ Even so. I was disgusted at myself, too, for not ris- 
ing and walking out.” 


4 Introductory Dialogue. 

“ Oh, I see ; you’re in one of your sulky, cynic moods ; 
disposed to find fault with everything and everybody 
alike. Take rest and physic, O’Leary. Good morning.” 

“ Oh, good morning, and good luck to you ! Be off as 
soon as you like.” 

“ What if I, too, got ill-natured, like yourself. Now, 
that I think of it, I’ll do so. Here I am now, down in 
your best chair ; and, goodness knows, your best is bad 
enough. Come, now, I want your opinion candidly 
about ‘ Woman’s Rights.’ Don’t you think there was a 
good deal of truth in what the fair lecturer said last 
night? You remember where she said, ‘ The genius of 
the so-called woman’s movement is not generally com- 
prehended.’ ” 

“ Yes ; I remember that, and I agreed with her. It is 
not so easy to comprehend that which is incomprehen- 
sible.” 

“But mind what followed. She maintained that it 
meant ‘ woman’s complete enfranchisement and eman- 
cipation from the control of her masculine master.’ Do 
you recollect that? ” 

“ Oh, perfectly ! ” 

“ And, don’t you think she was quite right, now ? ” 

“ Oh, by all means ! and especially when she said, ‘ Wo- 
man’s Rights intended, among other things, that the se- 
lection of companions in the most sacred relation of the 
sexes shall not be the exclusive prerogative of man ; if, 
indeed, as physiological laws and comparison would 
seem to indicate, the first right to woo be not surrender- 
ed to woman.’ That’s the point, Mac, my boy.” 

“ Well, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to be courted by a 
pretty girl, after all.” 

“ What about the ordinary looking, or ugly ? ” 

“ Not so pleasant, I confess.” 

“ What about the bold and bad ? ” 

“ Reject them.” 

“But Woman’s Rights will enforce your acceptance.” 


Introductory Dialogue. 5 

“I don’t like that part of the business ; but, as to the 
matter of courtship, a woman can reject a man if she 
don’t like him ; so that the present order of wooing is, 
after all, perhaps, the best.” 

“ But worse follows. See with what emphasis the lec- 
turer declared — ‘ I hereby warn all who are favorably 
inclined to this question, that in its granting, the knife 
is placed at the throat of the present marriage system. 
Those who would preserve that system inviolate as the 
keystone of the arch of social safety, should understand 
this.’” 

“ Well, that’s a plain and candid avowal, at all events. 
You can’t deny so much.” 

“ I deny nothing, Mac. I defy any one to use worse 
language ; to propound any doctrine of a more hellish 
tendency. Its boldness, presumption, and coarseness are 
only equalled by the hidden villany contained in such 
announcements. ‘ Woman’s Rights,’ as understood by 
your fair lecturer, are devil’s rights, calculated to destroy 
virtue ; to prostitute all that we love and admire, even 
to the lowest depths of infamy ; to raze society to its 
foundations, and plunge the good and true into the same 
maelstrom of vice which the promoters of this question 
are creating ! ” 

“ Strong language, O’Leary, very strong indeed.” 

“ Admitted. How can we speak tamely and respect- 
fully of those who talk about placing the knife at the 
throat of the present marriage system? ” 

“ After all, you cannot deny that women are entitled 
to full and perfect freedom ? ” 

“ They have that freedom, socially, as far as I can see.” 

“ But, politically? ” 

“ I’m not thinking, just now, of political freedom ; I 
have only spoken of social freedom, you’ll observe.” 

“ But I go in for both.” 

“ Go in for whatever you like.” 


6 Introductory Dialogue. 

“ But women really deserve to possess the fullest free- 
dom in all things.” 

“No, sir. Neither men, women, nor children, deserve 
to possess the fullest freedom in all things.” 

“ I have said what I believe.” 

“Yes; but your belief don’t amount to much.” 

“You are not over complimentary, O’Leary.” 

“ No, nor didn’t intend it at the beginning of this con- 
versation ; for the subject won’t permit me.” 

“ Well, we’ll drop it, old fellow. I confess, candidly, I 
know less about it than I had believed.” 

“ I know that. After all, I am rather pleased at its 
introduction.” 

“ If you are pleased, so am I.” 

“ Quite so. The question of Woman’s Rights, like 
many others of the present day, is one of those bubbles 
that float on the air as long as there is a ray of sunshine 
— public attention — to make it attractive. The first lit- 
tle breath of wind explodes the delusion, and — nothing 
remains.” 

“ Well, then, seriously, what are your views on the 
whole question ? ” 

‘ My views are simply these: — Woman has been raised 
to the highest pinnacle by the Church of God.” 

“Ah! I like that.” 

“ I knew you would.” 

“ You are thinking of our Blessed Lady, now.” 

“ I am. I am just thinking of the Blessed Virgin 
Mary, the Mother of God — I always chose to speak of 
her in that homely old Irish way — and, in consequence 
of the dignity attached to her name, to the mystery of 
her life, to the stupendous graces vouchsafed to her, 
woman has been raised to the most exalted position, and 
dignified beyond anything that society can confer.” 

“It is impossible that I should disagree with any- 
thing you say, when you take such a standpoint as that.” 

“ That is the proper standpoint to take.” 


Introductory Dialogue. 7 

“ Catholics will be sure to agree with you in all you 
could advance on that subject. But there are others, 
not a few of whom will laugh at you ; some, again, there 
are, who will long for an opportunity to jump at you 
and clutch you by the throat.” 

“And may there not be some, even non-Catholics, 
who will gently nod their heads, and say — ‘ He’s quite 
right?”’ * 

“ T don’t doubt it in the least. Do you intend making 
public your views on this matter ? ” 

“ I am not quite certain that I shall. I have had it in 
contemplation to write a work on our Irish Girls, and 
shall probably introduce it with a report of our conver- 
sation last evening and to-day.” 

“ Qui bono ? ” 

“ Well, I shall find an opportunity of guarding those 
who are yet clean of this social leprosy, against its con- 
tamination, and that will be something gained.” 

“ Then you will introduce it into your new work ? ” 

“ Not directly, perhaps. It is sufficient to make virtue 
attractive, without the diabolical subterfuge of exposing 
vice in all its deformity, in order to make our readers 
love the one and shun the other.” 

“ True. But, in a worldly sense, there is little pros- 
perity attends such a course. The use of a strong, brush 
in depicting the vices and follies of mankind, is better 
received now-a-days.” 

“ That is the chief curse of the literature of the pres- 
ent day. It is so easy and pleasant to say — ‘ I am only 
depicting vice, good reader, in order that you may 
shun it.’ Many people hug this delusion to their hearts, 
who would otherwise have remained pure, and escaped 
the snare so artfully laid.” 

“ You know the penalty, O’Leary, of appearing virtu- 
ous, I suppose?” 

“ Oh ! hang your penalties, and your jeers of fools ; no 
man dreads them. There is no class of people I am so 


8 Introductory • Dialogue. 

intolerant of, and impatient with, as those Catholics who 
consider it manly to prate in such fashion. ” 

“ I see you understand me. ” 

“ Perfectly. I know something of that class. Fellows 
who try to laugh if they hear you say you go to church 
of a Sunday; that you were present at Mass on a holi- 
day; or that you considered it your duty, not to join 
them in eating flesh-meat on a Friday. ” 

“ I hope you are not getting personal, O’Leary. ” 

“ If you find anything I have said applicable to your- 
self, you may apply it or not, as you like. ” 

“ Kemember we are in a free country, and people here 
are different from what they are in the Old Country. ” 

“ I know it. But why should they be different ? Are 
their souls less valuable here than in Ireland ? ” 

“ I should think not. ” 

“ Yet it would appear so. Are our chances of salvar 
tion better here than at home ? ” 

“ Not that I can see. ” 

“ And yet, you talk of a free country as a sort of excuse 
for liberties taken, for duties omitted, and as entitling 
you to sneer at virtue and religion. ” 

“ 1 must admit the truth of what you say, but is it not 
rather boldly announced ? ” 

“ I like boldness in speaking of such matters, and for 
this reason : those whose practices are as I have stated, 
are hypocrites. They are also moral cowards, for moral 
cowardice and hypocrisy are nearly akin. Such people 
speak differently from the promptings of their own 
hearts, therefore they are liars, and in silence they regret 
their deviation from the line of rectitude to which they 
were attached by early training. ” 

“ You will embody these things in your story. ” 

I shall make the attempt. ” 

“ Then I wish you every success, O’Leary. ” 

“ Thanks, Mac. I know you do. We are friends after 
all— good-by. ” 


THE LOST ROSARY 5 

OR, 

OUR IRISH GIRLS: 
THEIR TRIALS, TEMPTATIONS AND TRIUMPHS. 


CHAPTER I. 

MAY EYE — SPORTS OF THE PEASANTRY. 

“ The young May moon is beaming, love, 

The stars are gently gleaming, love. 

How sweet to rove 
Through Morna’s grove, 

While the drowsy world is dreaming, love. ” 

May* Eve, May Day. May, the Mother of the 
Months! What sweet recollections spring up in the 
mind at the thought of May! Recollections dear to 
every heart, recalling the May of youth, the happy hours 
of innocence, ere yet the shadow of sin had obscured the 
bright hours of boyhood, or maidenhood; when the 
morning of life was tinged with the roseate hues and 
glowing charms of a vivid imagination ; when the heart 
thrilled in responsive melody to the music of the lark 
and the thrush, twin choristers of Spring. Dear to us 
all are such recollections ; dearer in consequence of those 
days being passed and never to be recalled, except in the 

9 


10 


The Lost Bosary. 

shadowy outlines of a memory made treacherous by its 
conflicts with the world. 

Happy May ! When the bloom of the hawthorn offers 
its incense to nature, and gladdens every eye with its 
milk-white beauties. 

Happy May ! When the light-hearted youths of Ire- 
land, frolicsome and gleeful, go a-maying over moss and 
glen, to gather the golden flowers, whose magic spell 
around the cabin door preserves the humble home from 
all the spiteful influences and tricks of fairy-land. 

It was May Eve, and old Corny O’Donnell determined 
to give the boys and girls of his neighborhood a night’s 
fun. Wise old Corny. He had a three-acre field, damp, 
sour, and marshy, over which he wished there were a 
dozen or two cart-loads of good dry ashes thrown. 
What so easy as for a lot of the boys to wheel a “ wheen 
o’ barrowsful” of turf and sods into that field? set 
them going in the morning, and, by evening, have the 
ashes scattered over the ground, thus giving good May 
sport to as many as wished to join in the work. 

“Just as good as lime, every bit of it, an’ cheaper 
said Corny to himself. 

That was the old man’s plan of converting a festive 
occasion to some account. The chances were, he would 
not have succeeded so well in making his arrangements, 
if he had not included the extravagant undertaking of 
providing a fiddler, and giving the use of his barn for a 
wind-up to the evening’s sports. 

The cost of the fiddler was only a warm supper, and 
his “chances” among those who would “occupy the 
floor ; ” but, if blithe Barney McAuley or Timothy Heg- 
garty could be reckoned on being present, the fiddler’s 
“ chances ” were good for half-a-crown. 

Barney McAuley and Tim Heggarty were cousins, 
nearly of the same age, not unlike each other in features, 
about the same weight and height, and both capital 


11 


The Lost Rosary. 

dancers. Few finer specimens of manhood could be 
found in their native townland of Magheramore, in the 
parish of Clonmany, Donegal, than Barney and Tim ; 
and any undertaking of the kind proposed by old Corny 
O’Donnell, was sure to be successful, if the cousins could 
be prevailed upon to join it, or give it a helping hand. 

Corny had a beautiful young daughter, whose be- 
witching smile had played all sorts of pranks with Bar- 
ney McAuley’s heart. Cprny knew this, but nothing 
could be further from his mind than the idea of accept- 
ing Barney as a son-in-law. Then Mary O’Donnell had 
a cousin called Ailey, an orphan girl, who resided with 
a cross, old aunt, and Corny half suspected that Tim 
Heggarty had found favor in his niece’s eyes. At the in- 
terview with the young men, he slyly hinted that Mary 
and Ailey were sure to be at home that evening, and 
would tidy up the barn. 

In consequence of this timely hint, Barney and Tim 
were easily prevailed on to transfer their allegiance from 
a neighboring dance, in order to light the Beltaine in 
Corny’s field. 

As the morning of May Eve dawned, Barney and Tim, 
with over a dozen comrades, gladdened the heart of old 
Corny with a grand turnout of fuel for the fires. 

“ Marciful gracious ! Biddy, look here,” exclaimed Cor- 
ny to his wife, as he beheld no less than six cart-loads of 
good turf, and as many wheelbarrows, heaped and packed 
with the same sort of fuel, all wending their way to the 
appointed ground. Sods were speedily turned up by a 
dozen spades, and, in less than “ no time,” thirty or forty 
fires were set a-going, sending up their columns of fra- 
grant smoke, and giving good promise of being in fine 
order for the evening. 

Corny stood by, rubbing his hands in great glee. 

“Boys, I see,” said he, “ that you intend to have some 
sport ere nightfall. ’Pon my word, it’s a good lialf- 


12 


The Lost Rosary. 

guinea you ought to pay me for the use of such a fine 
level field, so it is.” 

“Mind your eye, old weathercock, or half a guinea 
won’t free you in the expense of a treat, this good May 
Eve morning,” replied one of the party. 

Corny chuckled at such an idea, but said nothing fur- 
ther, lest he might get himself into an “ unpleasant fix- 
ture,” as he termed it. 

Some of the girls from the neighboring farm-houses 
observed the procession of turf-carts, and, knowing that 
wherever they stopped, there the evening sports would 
run fast and furious, had gathered together on the road- 
side to watch the operations in which the young men 
were engaged. 

Corny was delighted to see them, and told them to be 
sure and deck themselves out in their best for the even- 
ing. These were his friends in the field over beyond, 
who had insisted on lighting their May fires there, 
and he wouldn’t be the least astonished if they forced 
him and Biddy, against their will, to yield up their barn 
to them for the evening. 

“ Sly old Corny ! ” said one of the girls to a companion ; 
“ the barn is newly floored, and he wants it well beaten, 
without the expense of inviting the neighbors.” 

“ Troth, an’ we’ll bate it for him,” said another ; “ an’ 
it’s maybe into holes we’ll bate it, afore mornin’.” 

Evening came, and, a little after sundown, the young 
men who lighted the fires in the morning, hastened to 
see how sped the good work. The whole “ country-side 
was up.” Young and old were engaged in rambles and 
athletic sports, some in the meadows, some on the road- 
side, and some on the hills. Everywhere there was rac- 
ing, and chasing, and harmless amusements. If those 
engaged in them had been asked why they did so, they 
would probably have replied— “ Because it was May 
Eve.” 


13 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ But why on May Eve, more than on any other Eve ? ” 

“Well, it is customary,” would have been the answer. 

“Just so; and a right good custom it is; descended 
down from the time when our forefathers were Pagans, 
and in ages after permitted by the Church to continue 
as a recreation ; thus proving her wisdom in changing, 
and in many instances sanctifying, instead of destroying 
popular customs.” 

Lots of exercise and fun — the best medicine and 
the best doctor ever yet discovered ; and these votaries of 
both were splendid examples of the care of the doctor, 
and the freshness and usefulness of the medicine. There 
they were, boys and girls, with breaths as sweet as the 
fragrance of the herbs and wild flowers crushed beneath 
their feet ; and with cheeks that bespoke the crimson 
and purity of roses and lilies in June. Girls romping 
about, neither last in the chase, nor behind at a good 
spring or hop over ditch or hedge; comely and beautiful, 
artless and innocent, but withal modest in speech and in 
act. Many of them had the hard and bitter struggle with 
life, — up with the dawn, and down with the starlight; 
concealing from the eyes of the world their struggles 
with poverty ; preserving a decent exterior, and, in not 
a few instances, the only support that was left to aged 
and helpless relatives. 

In what other part of the world may be found so many 
instances of devotion among girls? Even those of a 
tender age, well and carefully reared, yet willing in the 
hour of distress to forget everything but their love for 
those depending on their exertions, have gone forth to 
help in field labor ; to work on farms in any capacity 
whatever that would bring relief to those at home. And 
how often do we hear the bitter and cruel taunt, “ so 
coarse, so Irish, so Biddy-like,” — words that fall on our 
ears like blasphemy, for those who utter them are the 
flippant nonentities of our cities, who know as much 
about real worth as their mothers did to rear a family. 


14 


The Lost Rosary. 

Was it their seclusion from the busy world ; was it 
their poverty, or their rustic habits and simplicity, that 
made them so beautiful ? Beautiful they certainly were, 
those girls to whom I allude, although their toilets were 
neither fashionable nor costly. It may seem strange to 
make the inquiry, if their poverty had anything to do 
with their personal charms ; yet, it is the fact that ad- 
versity often begets beauty that did not exist under 
better circumstances. When resignedly and cheerfully 
borne, even poverty is a beautifier. 

This hint is thrown out for the benefit of those who 
are only middling-looking, and who tremble at the frights 
they would become if poorer than what they are. Then, as 
to the young men, some of them were good looking, and 
some were not ; that is, judging by their features. They 
were all cast in a manly mould, of good stature, lithe of 
limb, strong of muscle, broad-shouldered, deep-chested; 
with crisp curling hair, and rough hands that had never 
made the acquaintance of scented soap or kid gloves. 

Indeed, in the latter respect, they were on a par with 
the girls of the country. 

The clothing of these young fellows partook in some 
measure of their own character. It was of strong, home- 
made frieze cloth, made to resist a tug and a pull, as well 
as a good down pour of rain ; for, these fellows worked 
in the fields winter and summer, in sunshine and rain. 

Take in those groups at a glance as they catch hands 
and whirl around the May fires now blazing all over the 
country ; but, pay marked attention to those in Corny 
O’Donnell’s field. You may travel a good distance and 
back again, from the country they were born in, before 
you find their equal. 

There is little method or order in the fun in which all 
are now engaged. There is a circle of young people 
around one of the fires, sitting on the margin of dry 
ground, telling stories about fairies, in which the most 


15 


The Lost Rosary. 

wondrous incidents are related. Such, for instance, as 
that of the farmer, who insisted on removing a large 
thorn bush that grew right in the centre of his potato 
field. Everybody advised him against the act, but he 
heeded neither warning nor advice, and the morning 
following this act of agricultural desecration, he awoke 
with every hair on his head as “ white as a streak of 
flax.” 

Then there was another, who ploughed too closely to 
a rath ; his child was bewitched in its cradle six weeks 
after it was born, and its eyes were turned in its head. 

As the clouds of night darken all around, the young 
men amuse themselves by jumping over the fires. It is 
but fair to state that many attempt the feat, because 
there are dozens of pairs of bright laughing eyes among 
the promiscuous audience. 

Tim Heggarty gives a hop, step, and jump, and shout- 
ing out, “Follow the leader, boys,” scampers away, jump- 
ing clean over one fire, then another, and another, fol- 
lowed by all of the daring spirits present. Those who 
were seated enjoying themselves as described, hastily 
sprang up lest some mishap might befall them. Many of 
the young fellows are longer in the legs than others of 
their companions ; this, and the uneven build of the May 
fires, some high, some low, accounts for the accidents a 
la posterior, which fall to the lot of some, and makes the 
air ring with the laughter of the bystanders. Corny 
enjoys the fun vastly, for, in a short time, the field is cov- 
ered with the burning turf and sods. Many of these are 
flung on high, and those who attempt to escape from 
the falling sparks generally manage to run to the very 
spot where the largest numbers fall. 

Tired and delighted with their sport, those who were 
in Corny’s field, accompanied by their female compan- 
ions, retired to the bam. Rude seats were placed around, 
and the place was illuminated by a full dozen of candles. 


16 


The Lost Rosary. 

Such extravagance was never observed there before, and 
the visitors imagined that something had happened to 
friend Corny, otherwise he would never have indulged 
in such a display. Some of the more knowing ones 
guessed rightly that Mary and Ailey O’Donnell had some- 
thing to do with the arrangements, and surmised there- 
from that the whole was an effort to catch the attentions 
of Barney and Tim. 

In such small matters, criticism is just as sharp in coun- 
try life as in more pretentious and costly entertainments 
in the cities, but wanting in the ill-natured stings that 
accompany the latter. 


The Lost Bosary , 


17 


CHAPTEK n. 

THE DANCE IN CORNY’S BARN, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 

“ When I behold the festive train 
Of dancing youth, I’m young again! 

Memory wakes her magic trance, 

And wings me lightly through the dance ; 

Let me, while the wild and young 
Trip the mazy dance along, 

Fling my heap of years away, 

And be as wild, as young as they.” 

Blind Darby, the fiddler, was on his high horse ; that 
is, he was seated on the top of a barrel, with a sack 
doubled under him to make his position “ nice and aisy,” 
for it is well known that all musicians must be comfort- 
ably seated before they can perform either to their own 
satisfaction, or with pleasure to their audience. 

Darby rosined his bow, tuned his instrument, screwed 
and unscrewed the pegs, and performed all the unpleas- 
ant overtures that rack the hearts and ears of the impa- 
tient crowd, whose toes are tingling for the floor. 

“ Arrah, bad cess to you for a pack of asses,” cried out 
one of the company ; “ don’t you see that the rheumatiz 
is in Darby’s right elbow.” This was a hint for an in- 
ward “ rosiner,” which Darby seconded by a smack of 
his lips. 

To the astonishment of all who knew him, old Corny 
rushed out, and instantly returned with a drop of real 
Inishowen. He charitably brought it in a cup, which 
deprived the eyes of the inquisitive from seeing how 

2 


18 


The Lost Rosary. 

much it contained, but the effort of Darby to swallow 
the contents at one operation, spoke eloquently of Cor- 
ny’s large-heartedness. 

Some exchanged knowing winks, and disrespectfully 
hinted that Corny had made an attempt to become pop- 
ular at somebody’s expense. True or false, it is often so 
with the world. On this occasion, Corny gave what be- 
longed to himself ; but it cannot be denied that he had 
tasted the mountain dew himself, and this might account 
for his liberality. 

All being ready, a dozen pairs of feet engaged in the 
merry jig and reel. On they went at it with as much 
blithesome spirit as if they had known no fatigue with 
day’s work, or out-door evening sport. 

It was soon evident that blind Darby required all he 
got to keep up the steam. The demands made on him 
for “ Cabbage and Pork,” “ Laugh and grow fat,” “ Bury 
my wife an’ dance on the top of her,” “ Moll in the Wad,” 
and “ Irish Washerwoman,” kept his greased elbow go- 
ing at the rate of “ a forty horse power ; ” at least he 
said so himself, and no one had a better right to know. 

The first three or four sets over, Corny could stand it 
no longer. He was a changed man that night. Barney 
McAuley didn’t make the slightest attempt (so far) to 
engross his daughter’s attention. True, Ailey and Tim 
appeared inseparable, but he didn’t care for that; in fact, 
he rather liked it, so here goes. Up he sprang like a 
young fellow, made a clutch at Biddy, who screamed with 
the pain occasioned by the sudden jerk she had received, 
and, to the astonishment of all and delight of some, call- 
ed out to Darby “ to make the fiddle spake and scrape a 
bar of ‘ Tatter Jack Walsh.’ ” 

Wonderful performance! Corny and Biddy footed it 
right and left; up and down they went most creditably; 
for, was n’t Corny’s field well dusted that day at as cheap 
a rate as even he could wish. “ Hurrah, for Corny ! ” was 


The Lost Rosary. 19 

oil to his joints, while, “ Go it, Biddy,” made his partner 
forget the half of her age at least. 

A few minutes sufficed for the old couple, who sat 
down quite exhausted ; and would have kept on cough- 
ing till now, but for the thoughtfulness of Tim Heggar- 
ty, who, like a skilful physician, immediately came to 
their relief with a cough mixture of his own. 

Biddy maintained that Tim was a gentleman. This 
was said while she threw a discouraging glance at Bar- 
ney; and Corny boldly asserted that “Tim was more 
than a gentleman, — he was a rale doctor.” 

The dancing exercise, and cough mixture made by 
Tim, soon produced a sort of drowsiness in Corny and 
his wife, who begged the company to excuse them while 
they retired to their rest. 

Corny gave a jerk of his head, motioning to his daugh- 
ter to leave also ; but Biddy, remembering that a tender 
flame once lighted up her own existence, gallantly took 
her old man by the arm, remarking at the same time, in a 
tone loud enough for all who had ears to hear, “ Come 
on, you crazy ould dolt ; she’s in better company than ever 
her mother was when I was just her age.” Corny was 
anything but a hen-pecked husband ; but his wife’s arm 
appeared as if renewed with some of its youthful vigor, 
and the jerk he received drove every idea, if he had the 
like, of remonstrance out of his head. 

Corny O’Donnell had very few “ strong weaknesses.” 
He had a few, however, and one of them was his love 
for his cutty pipe. In the use of this article he indulged 
pretty freely ; but it was immediately before retiring to 
bed that he went about the work of filling it with all the 
deliberation of a philosopher. To see his face beaming 
with radiance as he applied a piece of hot turf to the bowl 
of the pipe, was enough to make a man envious of his 
happiness. He could pick out the best burned nut of turf 
on the hearth, and as he lifted it between the tongs, and 


20 


The Lost Rosary. 

placed it near his mouth to blow away the fine dandrift that 
enshrouded the sparkling gem, his cheeks were diffused 
with the glowing heat that lent a charm to every wrinkle 
of his leather-skinned face. The first whiff awakened 
the cogitations of his heart in those silent hours of the 
night, and Biddy was at these times generally treated to 
a full digest of the inner workings of his mind. 

“ Into that bed I’ll not lay a side this good night, till 
Mary O’Donnell is under her own roof,” began Corny. 

There was no reply, for Biddy was at her prayers. 

“ It’s mighty deaf you’re gettin’, all of a sudden,” he 
continued. 

Silently there came a few well-timed puffs, puff-f-f, 
puff-f-puff-f-f. 

Corny was thinking ; a bad sign for his peace of mind. 

“ I think that hussy is long enough out of her house. 
D’ye hear me now, I’m sayin’ ? ” then raising his voice to 
a higher pitch : “ Maybe it’s slippin’ out yourself will be 
when I’m in the middle o’ my first innocent sleep, for an 
hour’s gallivantin’ with some o’ the young fellows. 
That’s jist what comes o’ a bit o’ kindness, and ‘ Tatter 
Jack Walsh,’ but I’ll watch both o’ you.” 

“ into temptation, but deliver us from all evil. 

Amen ! ” floated incoherently to Corny’s ears. 

Then laying down his pipe with a terrible resolve, he 
slipped over to an old cupboard, and applied something 
to his mouth, after which he exclaimed, I’ll let you see 
whether there’s no temptation or not,” saying which 
Corny unbolted the door, and went out. 

“ Sorrow’s in the ould fool,” exclaimed Biddy ; “ what 
is he about at all, that he can’t let the young ones have 
a minute’s pace by themselves ? ” 

Scarcely were the words out of her lips than Corny 
rushed in like one demented. 

“Biddy, Biddy!” he shouted, as he came bump up 
against her at the entrance of the door. 


The Lost Rosary. 21 

“ What on earth is the matter with you, you old do- 
tard ? ” asked his wife. 

“ Gone, lost ! ” he shouted, letting himself slide down 
into his old rush-bottomed chair. 

“ What’s gone ? Who’s lost ? ” she asked, eagerly. 

But Corny could only point toward the barn. 

Biddy ran to try and find out the meaning of her old 
man’s perplexity. There, sure enough, was the barn 
quite deserted, the most of the candles blown out, for the 
doors had been left wide open. 

Back she ran into the house wringing her hands, shout- 
ing, “ Corny, dear, I see it all, I see it all ! O, mother o’ 
Moses, what’s all this for, at all at all? ” 

If Biddy was deaf before, Corny was now dumb. 

“ Can’t you spake ? ” she cried, shaking him by the 
shoulder. 

“ No,” he drawled forth, “ I’m spacheless ! ” 

Then there came floating on the night wind the sounds 
of distant laughter; atone time hollow and hoarse, anon 
shrieking and weird-like. 

“ Presarve us an’ bless us, Corny dear ; did you hear 
that?” 

“Do I hear it, you say? Yes. I hear it, an’ am glad 
that you hear it, too. You could n’t hear me a few min- 
utes ago, when I bawled out to you.” 

“ Yes, I heard you, Corny, but I was at my prayers 
when you spoke.” 

“You may go to them again, I’m thinkin’,” was the 
surly reply. 

“ There it ’s once more — between us an’ all harm,” said 
Biddy, blessing herself, and falling down on her knees, 
giving a side glance at Corny at the same time. 

The sounds were indeed strange. Heard at that hour 
of the night, when all was still and quiet, they appeared 
like the wailing of ghosts — ghosts always wail whenever 
they condescend to make a noise— so unearthly loud 


22 


The Lost Rosary. 

were they, now distant, now near, mingled with shouts 
and screams, such as were never heard before. 

“Were there any May-flowers scattered before the 
door to-day ? ” inquired Corny, while drops of perspira- 
tion oozed out all over his face. The tortures of his 
mind may be guessed at, by the violence of nature in 
forcing such huge drops through such a surface. 

“ That accounts for it, Corny dear,” cried Biddy, 
through her tears, while her right eye kept blinking. 

Corny accepted this as an answer, and groaned as he 
fully comprehended the whole nature of this neglect. 

“ Lay aside a dish of meal for the first poor wander- 
er that comes to this door,” said the old man, almost rev- 
erently. 

Biddy attended to his instructions, muttering half 
aloud, as she did so, prayers for the safety of her daugh- 
ter and for Barney. 

“Don’t speak of him,” cried Corny, passionately. 
“ fie ’s the cause of all this. Rather, pray for poor Tim, 
so kind-hearted and so good, and for poor Ailey ; poor 
things ! Where on earth have they been taken to ? ” and 
Corny buried his face in his hands. If an electric bat- 
tery had been placed beneath the seats occupied by this 
humble and sorely-distressed pair, they could not have 
experienced a greater shock to their nerves than they re- 
ceived by the loud and sudden crowing of the cock, roost- 
ed nearly over their heads. The cock crowed but once, 
yet it seemed as if the crowing power of an ordinary 
bird’s lifetime had been crowded into that one effort. 

All was again still as death ; the laughter and screams 
had ceased. Corny had re-filled his pipe ; Biddy was tell- 
ing her beads, praying that a certain poor man, who was 
credited by the country people as the possessor of super- 
natural knowledge, might be the first to enter the house 
in the morning to get the meal. 

Then there came home to the listening ears of both, 


The Lost Rosary. 23 

the softest, sweetest sound that ever greeted the disturbed 
senses of a lonely pair of afflicted mortals. 

There could be no mistaking that music. ’T was a fairy 
Laudamus for the haul they made that night. Presently 
the music appeared nearer and more distinct. Then all 
was silent again. What strange and undefinable feelings 
disturbed the minds of Corny and Biddy O’Donnell ! 

Corny was greedy, and, like most greedy people, was 
far removed above the possibility of want. He was fond 
of “gathering money,” and paid the priest’s dues at 
Easter and Christmas very reluctantly. Sometimes, but 
very seldom, he bestowed an alms upon the poor who 
came his way. He seldom made calculations so carefully as 
those in which the priest and the beggar were concerned. 
He would travel many a good mile on foot to borrow 
some farming implement which he required ; and had he 
been wise as he was ungenerous, he would long since 
have arrived at the knowledge that the time thus spent 
was more valuable to him than the compliments he re- 
ceived from his neighbors so grudgingly. He had only 
one child to support, and Mary O’Donnell was worth 
more than she cost him. He had no friends or relations 
to trouble him for anything, and he was fast approach- 
ing a good old age. True, he and Biddy had heretofore 
enjoyed good health ; but he had often heard that those 
so blessed were most likely to fall easy victims when 
their time came. These and such like thoughts now 
coursed through his mind and added to his pain. 

As for Biddy, she was trying to sustain herself as best 
she could. She was anything but sorry at the perplexi* 
ties of her husband. She did not exactly understand the 
unaccountable proceeding that left the barn tenantless ; 
still she was shrewd enough to partake of all the horrors 
that beset Corny, and, if she did not add to them, to re- 
frain from mitigating them. Any little indulgences that 
she had ever obtained for Mary or for herself, were won 


24 


The Lost Rosary. 

by preying on her old man’s fears as to what the neigh- 
bors would say, and such like little stratagems. 

“ What is that, Biddy ? ” he exclaimed, as the sound of 
a fiddle was distinctly heard. 

“ Faith, Corny, darlin’, it’s mighty like Darby’s ould 
spaker.” 

Up he jumped, and, after peering out, desired Biddy to 
follow him. Biddy grasped him tightly by the arm, and 
made her movements very slowly, as if anticipating some 
dire disaster; she breathed hurriedly and very distinctly, 
which had the desired effect of keeping poor Corny’s 
nerves strung to their highest pitch. Both approached 
the barn door, and, peeping in, there, sure enough, they 
beheld the whole party dancing away, “just as if they 
had never had the glammery thrown over them, and 
transported, poor things, to some place of witchery.” 

“ The Lord be praised! ” piously ejaculated Biddy, to 
which Corny responded with a devout “ Amen ! ” 

The old couple retired to the house, and, after a mu- 
tual agreement that neither should ever breathe a sylla- 
ble of the horrors of that night, Corny paid a second 
visit to the old cupboard, and soon after fell asleep in his 
favorite old chair. 

The first blushes of May Day were • streaking the East 
when the party in the barn broke up, and, after mutual 
leave-takings — of a different character from those which 
distinguish our fashionable balls — wended their way in 
groups of two and three to their respective homes. Mary 
O’Donnell prevailed on Ailey to remain with her for that 
* day at least, and, after a little coaxing, Ailey consented. 


The Lost Rosary. 


25 


CHAPTER III. 

MATCH-MAKING EXTRAORDINARY AND HOW IT WAS CON- 
DUCTED. 

“ The flower of the valley was Mary Machree, 

Her smiles all bewitching were lovely to see ; 

The bees round her humming, when summer is gone, 
When the roses were fled, might her lips take for one; 
Her laugh it was music, her breath it was balm, 

Her heart, like the lake, was as pure and as calm; 

Till love o’er it came, like a breeze o’er the sea, 

And made the heart heave of sweet Mary Machree.” 

Corny took a long sleep that morning. He had been 
dreaming, and, what was better, his dreams were pleas- 
ant. 

Biddy and her daughter had a quiet conversation be- 
tween themselves, while the “ head of the house ” lay 
wrapped in the mantle of Morpheus. 

“ I’m sure you must all have had a pleasant night of 
it? ” said Mrs. O’Donnell to Mary, by way of a beginning. 

“Pleasant! aye, it was indeed a pleasant, innocent 
amusement while it lasted ; but that thief, Tim Heggarty, 
the moment he saw you and father safely into bed, noth- 
ing would do him but start that game of forfeits of his, 
which makes everybody split their sides laughing.” 

“ Thief you may well call him ; but did he actually say 
he saw me and your father safely into the house ? ” in- 
terrupted her mother. 

“ He said you were all gone to bed, and then shouted 
out: ‘Come, now, boys and girls, the old people are 


26 


The Lost Rosary. 

snoozing by this time, let us enjoy ourselves ; ’ saying 
which, he made poor Darby dismount, took his seat, and 
commenced giving out forfeits.” 

“ Well, and who got the first forfeit? ” asked Mrs. O’D. 

“ Who do you think, but Tim himself,” said Mary, 
laughing heartily at the thought of what followed. 

Mary’s was a good, hearty, ringing laugh, that made 
Corny turn in his chair, and brought Ailey O’Donnell on 
the scene. 

At the sight of Ailey, Mary laughed till she was scarce- 
ly fit to move. Ailey joined her, as the remembrance of 
the cause of their merriment was indeed sufficient to 
make them enjoy themselves. 

“ Let us hear all about it,” insisted Mary’s mother. 

“ Here’s just what it was, aunt,” said Ailey. “ Tim 
Heggarty lost the forfeit, and Barney McAuley was ap- 
pointed awarder of punishments. He gave out that Tim 
Heggarty was bound by the laws of the game, and it 
was ordained there and then, that the said Tim should 
be carried by the girls from where he then was to the 
bog-hole at the foot of the meadow, placed in the mid- 
dle of it right up to the knees in the water, and in which 
place he was doomed to remain till the girl he loved best 
should release him from his captivity, by giving him a 
kiss, without wetting her foot.” And fairly overcome 
with the thought of Tim’s ridiculous position, and what 
followed, Ailey burst forth anew into another fit, hold- 
ing her sides as if they were like to split. 

By degrees, Mrs. O’Donnell learned the whole secret of 
the barn being deserted. No sooner was sentence pro- 
nounced than half a dozen sturdy girls surrounded the 
unfortunate Tim. One or two wicked glances at him 
were enough. He knew not at what point the attack 
would commence, and just when whirling his arms 
about him to guard off all and sundry, Tim was lifted off 
his feet, and fairly hoisted. His gallantry forbade the 


The Lost Bosary. 27 

expedient of kicking, and away his tormentors hurried 
him. 

Arrived at the spot, the difficulty was to get him in, 
without others incurring a like danger. It was neat- 
ly managed, however, and Tim was planted right in the 
middle of the hog-hole. The screams of the girls, and 
the loud roaring laughter of the boys, was enough to 
have roused half of the country from its slumbers 
Tim was in a sad plight. He maintained that a big eel 
had caught him by the leg. No one went to his rescue. 
At last, Ailey was literally dragged to the edge to release 
poor Tim, who begged of her not to keep him standing 
there all night in the cold. Barney, assisted by two of 
his companions, held Ailey by the skirt in her attempts 
to reach Tim. The latter stretched forth his neck till 
he could stretch it no more. Once or twice, Ailey nearly 
fell in, and was in momentary danger of dragging the 
others after her. Finally, the whole party took hands, 
with Ailey standing on the brink. 

Thus secured, Ailey stretched herself forward, and 
when within a few inches of reaching Tim, the chain of 
hands broke right in the middle, and nearly a dozen fell 
plump into the water. Tim, in his efforts to save Ailey, 
forgot all about the eel, and sprang on to terra jirma 
with the girl in his arms. 

It was then helter-skelter back to the barn, and not 
one in the lot of them was quicker of foot, or enjoyed 
the laugh of others equal to poor, blind Darby. 

Mary’s mother was satisfied. She only hoped that 
Corny would remain fixed in his belief, and for this pur- 
pose she hinted something to her daughter and Ailey, 
which made the young women look at each other quite 
knowingly. 

The mother advised them to look sharp about, and get 
engaged at work immediately if they wished to keep on 
good terms with the old man during the day. There was 


28 


The Lost Rosary. 

plenty of carded wool at hand, and a pair of spinning 
wheels lying idle. Nothing pleased Corny like the mu- 
sic of these wheels, and Mary and Ailey arranged to have 
a duet in the barn. 

Of all employments in the country, there are none so 
hearty and pleasant as that of spinning. Young women 
can talk and laugh as much as they like while so en- 
gaged, and the wheel goes faster withal. 

Young men, too, it has been remarked, conduct their 
courtship beside the spinning wheel without the slight- 
est chance of lessening its speed. Mary and Ailey knew 
all these things quite well ; for it must be confessed that 
they were observant of all the little odds and ends of 
life as well as the sharpest-sighted among their neigh- 
bors. Indeed, so clever were they in this respect, that 
they knew what things to avoid, and knowing them, they 
did truly and carefully avoid even the semblance of prac- 
tices too often indulged in to the detriment of those less 
cautious than themselves. 

“Come now, girls, look sharp,” said Mrs. O’Donnell. 
And they did look sharp and active, not requiring to be 
twice told. 

“ Where will we have most room and plenty of quiet- 
ness ? ” inquired Mary. 

“ Where but in the barn ? ” slyly answered Ailey. 

To the barn they went. Was it plenty of room, and 
peace to work, that actuated Ailey ? But why ask such 
a question ? It is not necesssry to peer too closely into 
every little motive, — so let that pass. 

A couple of hours had nearly passed, and the threads 
sped quickly through the nimble fingers of the workers. 
Corny entered the barn, having learned that the girls 
were busy at work. 

“That’s what I like best of all,” cried the old man. 
“ Nothing for me like lots of homespun woollen yarn,” 
he continued. 


The Lost Rosary. 29 

“ Yes, uncle, there is hope for your new stockings yet, 5 ’ 
cried Ailey. 

“ And a new coat,” added Mary. 

“ And blankets for Biddy,” cried Corny, quite cheer- 
fully. “ Work away, girls,” he said; “ nothing like mak- 
ing hay when the grass .” 

“ When the sun shines, uncle,” repeated Ailey. 

“ Aye, when the sun shines ; ” and Corny left quite 
pleased — with himself. 

Entering the house, he commenced in his slow me- 
thodical fashion to fill the pipe, remarking to Biddy, as 
he did so : “ Them girls deserve an hour’s sport, now and 
again.” 

“ To be sure they do, poor things,” answered Biddy, 
looking out of the window at the same time, and behold- 
ing Barney McAuley and Tim Heggarty enter the barn 
just as she spoke. 

“No play, and always spinning,” said Corny, “ is not 
the best, at times.” 

“ All work and no play,” replied Biddy. 

“ Aye, that’s it,” said Corny, “ makes the girls dull.” 

“ They are well entitled to give a good spell at the 
work to-day at any rate,” said Biddy, knowing well how 
to humor her lord and master. 

“ Don’t be too hard on the poor girls, Biddy,” insisted 
Corny. “We were once young ourselves, and enjoyed 
the prospect of a May eve as well as any of them.” 

“ True for you, old man ; and no later ago than last 
night didn’t we show the young ones a pattern ? ” 

“Troth, that we did, Bid.” Corny always called his . 
wife Bid, when he enjoyed the luxury of a good tem- 
per. 

“ Still I feel as if it were cruel to ask them youngsters 
to sit working all day.” 

“ Oh, never mind them, they would rather be at their 
employment than idle.” 


30 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ I suppose it would never do to mention to them 
what happened last night,” inquired Corny. 

“ Not for the life of you ever breathe a word to man or 
mortial living,” said Biddy, most emphatically. 

“ Well, Biddy, I’m a changed man, anyhow.” 

“ Changed, to be sure. Are n’t we all changed, God 
help us, when we see an’ hear all we saw an’ heard. But 
what’s the use of a change, Corny dear, unless we stick 
to it?” 

“ I’m changed,” repeated Corny, “ an’ I mean to stick 
to the change.” 

Biddy was half incredulous. Her good man was not 
at all a bad man. He had a surly temper at times, acted 
and spoke harshly to the poor occasionally, betrayed a 
miserable disposition rather often to the great annoy- 
ance of wife and daughter who wished to always appear 
decent before the neighbors ; but, with the exception of 
these defects, Corny O’Donnell was very much like other 
samples of humanity scattered over the world. 

Either Biddy was doubtful of the strength of his resolu- 
tion to become a changed man, or, she. had experienced 
resolutions made and broken too often before to attach 
much weight to the declarations of Corny founded on 
the fears of the previous night. Accordingly, we find 
Biddy, who was only human herself after all, busy at- 
tending to little jobs of work in her kitchen and sing- 
ing- ~ 

“ When the devil got side, 

The devil a saint would be ; 

But, when the devil got well, 

The devil a saint was he.” 

If Corny had the temper of a saint, he could not stand 
that “ blasted song.” He spoke his mind to Biddy in 
pretty plain terms, and told her that any shortcomings 
with which he was afflicted were clearly traceable to 
her. 

Corny always retired to his own room whenever tor- 


31 


The Lost Rosary . 

mented by his “ better half,” and she, wise woman, often 
tormented Corny for the very purpose of getting him to 
perform that act of self-banishment. On the present oc- 
casion, she was more desirous than ever of assisting her 
husband to continue in his good resolutions of amend- 
ment ; but the boys were in the barn, and if Corny should 
learn that fact, there was sure to be a “ rumpus.” So it 
“ went against her grain,” as she said to herself, to be 
hard on the old man just then; but her desire to allow 
Mary and Ailey, poor things, a minute or two by them- 
selves, especially when Barney and Tim “were just ask- 
ing them how they enjoyed themselves after last night’s 
fun,” was the sole cause of her lilting the obnoxious 
stave. To her astonishment, however, Corny made no 
appearance ef retreat. He filled his pipe, and went out. 
Biddy’s keen eyes were upon him, but he was uncon- 
scious of her vigilance. As he approached the barn- 
door he heard loud laughter, something almost like what 
he had heard the night before. He stopped a moment, 
just to think a little, perceiving which, Biddy bawled 
out, “ Barney” — she intended to call Corny, but had been 
thinking of several names at the one instant. Barney 
and Tim both came to the barn-door and looked out. 
Corny saw them. “ What the devil brought these fellows 
here?” muttered Corny to himself. He entered the 
barn ; Mary and Ailey were spinning away, but the tell- 
tale blushes were playing hide-and-go-seek on their faces. 

“ There’s hope for my new stockings yet,” sneered Cor- 
ny. There was no reply. 

“ And for my new coat, too,” he drawled out, looking 
towards Mary. 

“ And blankets for Biddy,” he added. 

Neither Barney nor Tim knew anything of what he 
meant, and consequently were silent. Mary and Ailey 
kept spinning away, as innocent-looking as the animal 
whose wool flew swiftly through their fingers. 


32 The Lost Rosary. 

“ I’ll take a smoke with you, Mr. O’Donnell,” said Bar- 
ney. 

“ Better mind your work, and buy tobacco for your- 
self,” answered Corny, making toward the house, and 
followed by Barney and Tim. 

“ It’s not your tobacco, you unneighborly cratur, that 
I’m wanting,” urged Barney, who quietly took a seat un- 
asked, and spoke to Biddy in the most off-handed man- 
ner. 

“ Never mind him, Barney,” said Biddy. “We were 
tired from last night, and he has scarcely come round 
yet. I’m sure he acted very well to you all, so lie did 
and wise Biddy looked approvingly on Corny, in the hope 
of softening him for what was coming. 

“ There’s the pipe,” said Corny, “ fill it if you like.” 

“ Keep your pipe,” said Barney. “ I came here to-day 
on a special business, which I wished to conduct in a 
friendly way ; but seeing that there is no possibility of 
ever finding you in the temper of a Christian, I won’t 
postpone my business on that account any longer.” 

That was the very plan, to attack Corny in such fash- 
ion. Barney winked at Biddy, as much as to say, 
“ Didn’t I do that well.” 

“ An’ what is your business, pray ? ” inquired Corny. 

“ My business,” said Barney McAuley, in a most em- 
phatic, dramatic, and ecstatic tone of voice, “ is — to — 
make — you — my — father-in-law.” 

Corny cocked his ear to listen. Some one was sing- 
ing in the barn. Yes, there it was — 

„ “ Impudent Barney ” 

All was silent again. 

“Do I understand you,” said Corny, puffing away 
most vigorously at the pipe, “ to mean ” 

“ That I want Mary as my wife,” said Barney. 

“Never, till the day of judgment!” cried out Corny 
most passionately. 


33 


The Lost Bosary. 

“ I’ll give you till to-morrow to think of it,” said Bar- 
ney, rising to leave. “Mind you,” he continued, “I 
don’t want one farthing out of your old stocking — but 
the girl I’ll have. I have her own consent and her 
mother’s, and if I don’t get yours, I know what I’ll do.” 
Saying which, the young men took their departure. 

Corny sought the retirement of his room, and Biddy 
went forth to talk to the girls, delighted at the way that 
Barney had acted. 


34 


The Lost Rosary . 


CHAPTER IY. 

A CONVERSATION AND A PLAN NOT UNDERSTOOD— 

PRIVATE MOTIVES AND THEIR CAUSE. 

“ He sat in Ins chair, all wrinkled with care, 

And tried to be uncivil ; 

But his heart was as far as yon shining star, 

From any concern with the devil.” 

Next morning, Corny and his wife, Ailey, and Mary, 
sat down to breakfast. It was a wonderfully quiet per- 
formance, for some little time. 

“ Bad cess to it for a May Eve,” said Corny, in a sort 
of half soliloquy. 

No one appeared to notice the remark, although Cor- 
ny intended it as an opening to conversation. “ A pret- 
ty time of it I’ve had indeed,” he continued. No one 
deigned a word in reply. “ It’s a conspiracy,” thought 
the old fellow to himself. 

“ Do you call that tay?” he said abruptly to his wife. 

“ Yes, Corny darlin’, that’s tay,” replied Biddy. 

“ Don’t darlin’ me,” he said, very surly ; “ I say it’s no 
tay,” he continued ; “ it’s weaker than water, and only fit 
for spoilin’ the good milk that’s in it.” 

“ Uncle, see there ! ” cried Ailey, pointing to the win- 
dow. Corny turned round, and beheld Barney McAuley 
and Tim Heggarty slowly approaching. 

“ The devil it is I ” he exclaimed, as the two young men 
entered. 

“ A pair of them, an’ no less,” said Barney, laughing. 


35 


The Lost Eosary. 

“ An’ how are you, this good morning ? ” he inquired, 
holding out one hand to Mary and another to her moth- 
er. 

“ Troth, we’re all purty well, thank you, Mr. McAuley,” 
said the woman of the house. 

“ Mr. McAuley ! ” repeated Corny. 

“ Aye ; an’ as good a name as yours, although she did 
stick the Mister to it,” said Barney. 

“ Well, it’s better than Heggarty, any day,” said Corny, 
looking closely at Ailey, and in a tone of voice quite 
changed from his usual style. 

“ Can you sit there quietly, Ailey, an’ hear the likes of 
that ? ” urged Tim, who sat beside the girl, nudging her 
with his elbow at the same time. 

“ I would rather have that name any day than McAu- 
ley,” replied Ailey, giving a sly glance at her cousin, and 
then at Barney. 

Mary was silent. She knew that her lover had come 
that morning, to ask her hand, in the presence of her fa- 
ther and mother. She knew that her cousin and Tim 
were betrothed, and she did not wish even to appear to 
treat the matter with levity. Her father knew quite 
well, that Barney and his daughter were spoken of as a 
pair that would “ make a nice young married couple.” 
She knew, moreover, that her father, although rough- 
tempered, was not without a good deal of sound sense ; 
but she dreaded his opposition when Barney would make 
known his intention of emigrating to America. Barney 
had told her that he would not deceive the old couple, 
under any pretence whatever. He was candid and truth- 
ful in his nature, upright in character, to any degree ; 
and, by the advice of his cousin Tim, who was his ster- 
ling friend, he determined to follow this open course. 

“ Mr. O’Donnell, I hope you have changed your mind 
in that little matter I was spakin’ to you about,” com- 
menced Barney. 


36 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ 1 don’t see any raison to change my mind. Mean- 
time, I’d prefer to see you both daicently wait for a 
couple of years yet ; and I think you’ll be nothin’ the 
worse for it,” repeated Corny, in quite a friendly way; 
and he appealed to Bid to say if he wasn’t right. 

“ It’s a thing I don’t like to interfere with, farther than 
for the benefit of all consarned,” said Biddy. 

“ The very thing I mane, an’ more or less I don’t want 
this good day,” said Corny. 

Barney gave a wink to Ailey and Mary, which both 
girls comprehended to mean that it was then time for 
them to retire. 

“ I would have no objection, not in the laste, to abide 
by every word you have said,” replied Barney, when both 
girls had left ; “ but, the truth is, Mr. O’Donnell, I’m mak- 
ing arrangements to go out to America next month, an’ 
I would like to get married before I go. Cousin Tim here, 
an’ myself, are both of one mind in these matters, an’ I 
believe that Ailey an’ himself have their affairs all set- 
tled.” 

This was hard news for poor Corny. Tears stood in 
the old man’s eyes, and his head shook a good deal as he 
tried to speak. Biddy was also affected. Here was news 
for her ; and it was some comfort to Corny to find his 
wife seated beside him, and comforting him with her 
sympathetic looks. 

“ To lave me in my ould days,” muttered Corny, “ an’ 
not knowin’ which of us, her mother, or myself, will bo 
called away first. No, sir; I’ll never consent to that,” he 
repeated, firmly. 

Corny began to think that this notion of emigrating 
arose chiefly from the desire of Barney to better his con- 
dition. Such, however, was not precisely the case. He 
had a brother living in a distant part of the country, 
whose eldest son had been guilty of a “ dirty trick,” and 
uncle Barney determined not to remain in the country 


37 


The Lost Rosary. 

with the name of McAuley dishonored. The “ dirty- 
trick ” referred to, was the theft of a heifer. His nephew 
was tried for the offence, and, by some flaw in the man- 
agement of the case, got off. Barney advised the re- 
moval of the delinquent, but did not succeed, so deter- 
mined on taking the steps alluded to. Thus Corny was 
arguing with himself from false premises, never dream- 
ing that Barney had any other reason for leaving the 
country than the very common one of poverty. 

To some, it may appear strange that one disgraceful 
act should influence others than the immediate relatives 
of the guilty person ; while some may he found to dis- 
credit such things altogether. It is notorious, neverthe- 
less, that among most families in the country districts 
of Ireland, a single blemish in any member is felt to at- 
tach to all who belong to that family. In not a few in- 
stances, especially in the case of females who may have 
fallen from their high estate of virtue, the memory of 
the offence is carried down to generations. Such an of- 
fence as that of giving birth to an illegitimate child — 
one of the rarest crimes in Ireland — begets a social os- 
tracism that time will not cure. A dishonest act is sel- 
dom forgotten by the people, and we often find parties, 
whose position in life is one of comfort and respectabil- 
ity, considering it their duty to voluntarily banish them- 
selves, in consequence of the delinquency of a relative. 

This was the case with Barney McAuley. His real 
motive was known only to cousin Tim, who also shared 
in the feelings that actuated Barney. 

Was it prudent and wise of Barney to conceal from 
Corny, and even Mary herself, his real motive for emi- 
grating? Well, we need not anticipate. Time will tell. 

“ Well, I’ll give my consent to your marriage with my 
child,” said Corny, sorrowfully enough ; “ but only on 
condition that you banish every thought of separating 
yourselves from us afterwards.” 


38 


The Lost Rosary. 

This was a great deal for Corny to .accede to, and he 
felt he had gone at once to the point, and as far as he 
could or would go. 

Barney felt himself in “ a sort of a quandary,” as he 
afterwards expressed it The old man’s offer was fair, 
and implied a generosity that Barney did not expect. 
This was the difficulty. He anticipated some reluctance, 
hut foolishly believed that his emigration scheme would 
further instead of retarding the progress of his suit. 

“ I’m firmly resolved on goin’ to America,” resumed 
Barney. “ In fact, I have most of my preparations made 
for the journey.” 

“ I have said all I wish to say on the matter,” said Cor- 
ny, quite cool and collectedly. 

“An’ how about Mary’s opinion of these things?” 
asked her lover. 

“ Mary will be guided by her parents,” said the mother, 
not a little changed in her views by the conduct of 
Corny. 

“ Will you both be guided by Mary’s verdict in the 
matter?” inquired Tim, who felt in his brave, manly heart 
for all concerned. 

“ I’m quite prepared,” said Barney. 

Corny and Biddy were both silent. 

“ I think that she is the principal one to be consulted, 
after all,” insisted Tim. 

“Well, I’m prepared to abide by her decision,” said 
her father, “ provided she knows my mind first, an’ be- 
fore she’s asked any questions.” 

Barney was satisfied, and felt conscious of a triumph. 

Little did poor Mary and Ailey dream of the turn affairs 
had taken in their absence. Both girls were chaffing 
each other on the respective merits of Barney McAuley 
and Tim Heggarty. 

Ailey and Tim went forth for a walk, and Mary was 
seated beside her mother. The conversation which had 


39 


The Lost Rosary. 

taken place was rehearsed in the presence of the girl. It 
was a sad change that had taken place in her feelings. 
Only a few minutes ago, and she was innocently engaged 
in pleasant banter with her cousin ; now, she was sitting 
a judge in her own case. Her young heart was torment- 
ed with a conflict she had never experienced before. 
She wished earnestly from her heart, that the matter had 
been decided one way or another, without being called 
upon to interfere ; yet she felt she must take her part, 
unpleasant though it was, and sliding down on her knees 
before her father, calmly told him that she would never 
take such a step of importance without his and her 
mother’s consent. 

Barney looked upon her with mingled feelings of love 
and respect. He wished he could retract ; and then came 
the feeling of honorable pride asserting itself to be 
heard. All were silent for a few minutes, and Tim and 
Ailey entered. Ailey approached her cousin, and loving- 
ly raising her, led her into her room. 

Both girls wept, and found relief in tears. 

Corny and his wife preserved their silence, and the 
looks exchanged between Tim and Barney showed how 
deeply they felt at the result. Tim had guessed rightly 
how matters had gone. 

The young men rose and took their leave, both shaking 
hands warmly with the old couple, and promising to 
look in,” in a day or two. 


40 


The Lost Bosary. 


CHAPTER V. 

DIFFERENT VIEWS OF DIFFERENT PARTIES — ONE CAUSE 
FOR ALE. 

“ The words she said were hard to hear, 

And hard to her who spoke them ; 

And he had wished he could not hear 
The spell that thus had woke him.” 

On their way homeward, Barney felt very much deject- 
ed. He never contemplated Mary’s refusal, even at the 
risk of offending her parents. 

“ There was more than risk implied,” said Tim, very 
wisely. “ There was disobedience,” he continued, “ an’, 
for my part, if I were you, Barney, Mary’s conduct would 
please me as much, nay, would warm my heart more 
towards her for her conduct, than if she had acted 
otherwise.” 

“ Oh, it’s aisy for you to talk, an’ admire conduct in 
others, when the thing don’t concern yourself,” said 
Barney, with not a little sharpness in the tone of his 
voice. 

“ That’s neither fair nor manly, Barney; an’ what’s 
worse, you know it. I can excuse you, however, under 
the circumstances,” replied Tim. 

“ I wish to God I hadn’t asked her,” uttered Barney. 

“ Then it’s your pride that’s wounded, not your heart.” 

“No, Tim— you’re wrong. It’s not my pride that’s 
wounded. I need not deny from myself that filial obe- 
dience in a girl before marriage is not a bad sign, is it?” 


41 


Tlie Lost Rosary. 

“ I’m really glad you take that view of it. Then, what 
in the name of goodness are you so displeased at? ’’in- 
quired Tim, who felt keenly for his cousin’s trouble. 

“ I’ll tell you what I’m sorry at. I’m sorry for the de- 
ception I practised towards these people. ” 

“Deception!” cried Tim in amazement. “Why, are 
you trying to deceive me, too, Barney? What can you 
mean ? ” 

“ I’ll tell you. Mary had no particular objection to our 
emigration. She always made our contemplated mar- 
riage to rest on the leave of her parents. If her father 
was likely to offer any objection, she relied on her mother 
to change his mind. But, neither of us ever looked for- 
ward to what has happened. ” 

“But where is the deception in all that?” inquired 
Tim, eagerly, imagining that his cousin was accusing him- 
self unnecessarily. 

“ The deception lay here. I allowed Mary to believe 
that my sole object in proposing to emigrate was to se- 
cure our future happiness, as neither of us ever thought 
that her father had a desire to show us a kindness. Find- 
ing, then, that he offered no particular objection to our 
union, but only to our going to America, she would nat- 
urally think that I should have abandoned that scheme. 
Do you see now?” 

“Yes; I begin to comprehend your meaning,” an- 
swered Tim. 

“ Now had I been truthful at the beginning, an’ not to 
hide from her my real motive, the chances are, she would 
have admired my reasons ; but now she misjudges me, an’ 
I have to bear all that without explanation. She will 
consider my love for her not worth much, when I would 
not yield in a matter that is intended to benefit us both. ’’ 

Tim fully coincided in all his cousin, said. He endeav- 
ored to make him change his mind, but his resolution 
was fixed. 


42 


The Lost Rosary. 

What a simple thing was all this ; and yet how impor- 
tant in its relations on all concerned. 

“ He is stiff an’ stubborn,” said Corny to his wife, “ an’ 
doesn’t deserve our girl. I’m sure I never intended to 
do so much, an’, after all, you see he wouldn’t yield. ” 

“ I wasn’t opposed to their union,” said Biddy, “ for 
Barney is a likely young man, an’ I’m far mistaken if a 
more honorable fellow can be found in the whole of Mag- 
heramore; but, seeing as how his circumstances were 
safe here, he might easily have yielded his desire of 
America.” 

“ It will cost that dear girl a hard struggle,” continued 
her father, “ but I think she’ll get over it. ” 

“ Don’t make so sure of that,” said her mother. “ Ma- 
ry is very wise. She would sacrifice every feeling of her 
heart rather than do one act contrary to her duty ; or, 
give the example to others of doing anything she knew 
to be wrong. But she will suffer none the less for all 
that. ” 

The mother was right. She knew her daughter well. 

Mary O’Donnell could not boast of her large amount 
of knowledge of this world’s ways. She was too good- 
hearted for that. She would never shine in a brilliant 
circle ; it was even doubtful if she would desire so to 
shine. She had on one or two occasions seen “ a little 
society,” and little as it was, she thought it was enough 
of the sort for her to see. And yet the great majority of 
young women— or young ladies, if the reader prefers it— 
and young men of the world, would like to indulge 
a good deal in what Mary O’Donnell saw. I am not 
certain but some old ladies and old men would also 
like the same thing. 

What was it that Miss Mary O’Donnell had seen that 
people would be so anxious to know all about ? 

Merely a trifle. 

But readers shouldn’t be trifled with. 


43 


The Lost Rosary. 

Unfortunately, too many are trifled with, and, what is 
worse, they permit themselves to he trifled with, and their 
time to be wasted, by the perusal of works that should 
never have been written, but when written, should never 
have been read. 

Mary O’Donnell had the advantage of a boarding 
school education. She had actually spent three months 
at such an establishment ; and, strangest of all, she re- 
quested to be removed. 

A foolish neighboring farmer, named Clarkson, had 
two daughters at a boarding school in Derry, and their 
progress was so satisfactory to their father, who was 
scarcely able to write his name, that he induced Corny 
to send his girl to the same establishment. Mary was 
dispatched accordingly, and, at the expiration of the first 
quarter, hinted pretty plainly that she wouldn’t remain. 

The conductors of that boarding school gave weekly 
parties, which the scholars relished very much. In fact, 
it was by this means that the scholars were made to re- 
main in the place. They all looked forward to what 
they termed “ the beautiful social re-unions,” with evi- 
dent pleasure. Three days in the week were spent in 
talking over matters connected, there with; and, at least, 
the other three were spent in rehearsing the incidents 
that took place at them. The young men of the neighbor- 
hood were invited, and things were made very pleasant. 
The young ladies dressed themselves, or, rather, undressed 
themselves, and appeared with shoulders and necks quite 
bare ; their dresses descending still lower at times, until 
it became doubtful whether they desired to expose their 
bosoms in toto , or were constantly engaged in the task 
of attempting to cover them with shreds of scarfs, utter- 
ly unfit to effect that purpose. The conversation and 
general conduct of all who participated in “the beautiful 
social re-unions,” were of such a character that few people 
used to such things could find fault with. But all such 


44 


The Lost Rosary. 

entertainments, it must be remembered, are judged by 
their general appearance, and not by their results. Mary 
O’Donnell unwillingly took part in them during her stay 
at the place ; and, being a sharp, observant girl, saw both 
sides of the little social picture, before and after the en- 
tertainments. Mary’s earliest days were grounded in 
virtue, both by her mother and by her teachers, at the 
Old Chapel School of Clonmany. She was thus enabled 
to discriminate between good and evil ; and, although 
the latter, might have been pleasanter to follow, she knew 
right well the value of after contentment, although it cost 
a pang or two to cherish virtue for virtue’s sake. 

“ Still, I’m inclined to think,” said Corny to his wife, 
“ that in a month or two all will be well with her again. 
The thought of losing her forever would make it all up 
with me, that’s so much certai^.” 

The old man was quite right in the knowledge of his 
own strength. He doated on his child ; and mother and 
daughter knew it, by judging from their own feelings 
more than by his acts, although the latter were tender 
enough at times. 

When Ailey and Mary had sat together for some time 
indulging in mutual grief, Ailey with her arm around 
her cousin’s neck, and Mary with her head reclining on 
her cousin’s shoulder, both girls rose to go out for a short 
walk. 

“ I don’t deny,” said Ailey, “ that Barney Me Auley is a 
young man of rare merit. But I think, after all, cousin 
Mary, that you will find good cause for thankfulness 
hereafter, although things don’t seem very bright at 
present.” 

Mary looked up at Ailey, and tried to smile her thanks. 
There were moments when pleasant banter would have 
befitted Ailey’s tongue and Mary’s temper, but it was not 
just then. 

“ It would be folly in me, dear cousin,” said Mary, “ to 


45 


The Lost Rosary. 

deny the affection I have for Barney. I know he loves 
me, and that he would willingly make me his wife, but 
it is hard to say what changes will come over him 
soon.” 

“ My life on Barney’s constancy,” said Ailey. 

“ I would scarcely exact so much, seeing that he’ll 
occupy one side of the earth, and me the other,” said 
Mary. 

“ I’m not at all certain but he’ll be glad to change his 
mind shortly, and give up that notion of America,” said 
Ailey, emphatically, accompanying her words with the 
least indication of a jerk of the head, which, by means of 
a free translation, meant plainly enough, “we’re just as 
good as they are, perhaps a trifle better.” 

Mary read the little jerk in a like fashion, and smiled 
as she comprehended its meaning. 

“ You are wrong, Ailey,” she said. “ Barney is no way- 
ward child. I know he has his mind settled on going to 
America. He would scorn to lead a life of drudgery, and 
he don’t see many openings for bettering his condition 
here.” 

“ But couldn’t he wait a couple or three years here, and 
be young enough to marry, and emigrate for that matter, 
even then?” insisted Ailey, who desired just then an 
opportunity of exercising her influence and eloquence 
on Barney McAuley. 

“Well, there’s some truth in that, I acknowledge,” re- 
plied Mary ; ” but it is not for me to try to detain him.” 

“Then I’ll try,” cried Ailey, joyfully, as the thought 
crossed her mind that, humble as she was, she might be 
the means of restoring peace and a proper understand- 
ing between all parties, even at the eleventh hour. She 
appeared as if she had some plan of her own, which she 
did not care to disclose just then. 


46 


The Lost Rosary. 


CHAPTER VI. 

AN EXPLANATION — A GIFT AND AN ADVICE — VOLUN- 
TARY SACRIFICES. 

“ Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 

And ends in bitter doubts and fears, 

Or dark despair ; 

Midway so many toils appear, 

That he who lingers longest here 
Knows most of care.” 

Barney made his call according to promise, and when 
he entered Corny’s house was fortunate in finding none 
present but Mary. She could not avoid wondering at 
his altered appearance, but made no allusion to it. Per- 
haps he observed something of the same in herself. 
This was exactly the case, but neither guessed what was 
passing in the mind of the other as sometimes happens 
under similar circumstances. 

“ I’m glad to see you, Mary,” he said, shaking hands 
with her, and seating himself beside the girl. 

“ I’m glad to see you, too,” she replied, without the 
slightest attempt at concealing her feelings. 

“ Mary,” he said, “ I want to be very open and above- 
board with you to-day, an’ to learn your mind about our- 
selves. Do you still abide by your former resolution ? I 
mean your refusal to get married, an’ accompany me to 
America.” 

“You might know me better, Barney, than ask me 
such a question,” said the girl. 


The Lost Rosary. 47 

“I thought perhaps you might have changed your 
mind since I saw you.” 

“ I’m not stubborn, Barney, at least to you, and if I 
had any chance of changing my mind, I might have done 
so, but I have none,” she repeated, affectionately, but 
firmly. 

“ You mean by that that you still adhere to the will of 
your father ? ” he inquired. 

“ I adhere to my duty to the desires of both father and 
mother,” she answered ; “ and seeing that it is duty com- 
pels me, I did think that, as you had nothing so severe as 
that to contend against, you might have yielded in 
a matter of taste and convenience to them yourself.” 

“ So I would, willingly, but for one thing.” 

“ And what can that be ? ” she earnestly inquired, as a 
ray of hope shot across her heart that after all she might 
be able to settle any difficulty that lay in the way of their 
union. 

“ I’ll tell you, on condition that you don’t mention it to 
any one, except Ailey. You may tell her, if you like.” 

“ I promise you,” said the girl, who was all attention. 

Barney then gave her a detailed account of his reason 
for the step he was about to take, adding that his heart 
was greatly relieved by the opportunity he had of telling 
her. “ An’ now,” he continued, “ after all I have said, 
you see that it is my desire to save you and yours from 
any disgrace that would attach to myself, that induces 
me to again urge you to accompany me.” 

Mary acknowledged that she appreciated his motives 
of honor. She did not deny that small as the whole 
thing was, her father might see in it either an impedi- 
ment to their marriage, if he knew it previously, or it 
might become a source of bitterness afterwards. “If 
anything could endear me to you, Barney, more than 
heretofore,” she said, “ it is this proof of your open-heart- 
edness.” 


48 


The Lost Rosary. 

He clasped the girl to his breast, and pressed his suit 
more ardently than ever; while, on the other hand, Mary 
steadfastly maintained that to leave her parents would be 
the death of one or other of them, probably both ; and if 
anything should happen to them, she would always believe 
that she was the cause of it ; and this, of itself, would ren- 
der her days miserable ever afterward. Barney could 
not but acknowledge the force of what she said, and ex- 
pressed himself satisfied, if Mary promised him to remain 
constant in her love, and proceed to America to him after 
the death of her father. 

“ Your mother,” he said, “ will not have the same scru- 
ples as your father ; an’ if it please God that she lives af- 
ter him, I’ll be to her as dutiful a son as a husband to 
yourself.” 

Mary faithfully promised him that no other would ever 
find a place in her affections. She would have said more, 
but her heart refused its utterance. 

“ The only thing I care to leave you, is this,” he said ; 
and he took from a breast-pocket a. neat little Rosary, 
which Mary had seen and admired before. “ It is the 
dearest thing to me on earth,” he added ; “ the dying gift 
of my mother, an’ the greatest treasure I ever possessed.” 

Mary took the present, and pressed it to her lips, prom- 
ising again most faithfully to remain “ constant and true 
to her first, her only love.” 

“ After all, Mary,” continued her lover, “ the prospect 
of working for a dear object will not be wanting in my 
case, an’ I shall endeavor to keep that before my eyes, 
both as an incentive an’ as a guard against evil courses.” 

“ These were the thoughts nearest to my heart,” said 
Mary. “ I felt some difficulty in expressing them ; but 
now that you have, as it were, opened the way, Barney, 
for me to speak, I beseech of you, when far away from 
me, and from all your old friends and acquaintances, 
never, even for a moment, forget the straight and honor- 


The Lost Rosary. 49 

able path you followed here. Something tells me that 
there is little danger of any change in you.” 

“ Your advice will be always present to me,” replied 
the young man ; “ an’ as we don’t know what a strange 
country, strange companions, strange customs, strange 
everything, may effect in any of us, there is nothing like 
being fortified against even the chance of evil, by the 
good counsel of those we love.” 

Your words give me great hope,” said Mary. “ They 
renew within me feelings that I have been trying to ban- 
ish since the hour I saw it necessary, Barney, to act as I 
did.” 

Ailey entered, and expressed how glad she was to see 
Barney. No one who had witnessed the pair at their 
last meeting, would have thought it even likely that in 
so short a time they would have had the reconciled ap- 
pearance which Mary and Barney then presented. 

“ By-the-by, Ailey, I should have told you that Tim 
promised to call this way on his return from farmer 
Clarkson’s.” 

Just then Tim entered, with the salutation, “ spake o’ 
the deil, an’ he’ll appear.” 

“ Was there a race between you an’ Ailey, as to which 
would be in first ? ” inquired Mary, addressing Tim, and 
placing a seat for him. 

“ I saw her in advance of me coming down the road, 
and ran to overtake her,” said Tim ; “ but she hurried on, 
not knowing, I’m sure, that her own bould Tim was so 
near hand.” 

“ What if I did know, and just hurried on with my- 
self, for fear of you overtaking me,” said Ailey, with a 
little coquettish air. 

“ Not a bit of you knew I was behind you,” said Tim, 
“ or you would have taken your time,— just till I would 
have got my arm round your waist, in this fashion,” said 
Tim, suiting the action to the word. 


50 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ Hands off with you, till you account for your visit to 
them Clarksons,” said Ailey, removing her seat some dis- 
tance from Tim’s. 

Ailey and Tim were delighted with the happy-looking 
appearance of Mary and Barney, and were glad to get 
bantering one another. 

“You’ve early begun to be jealous,” said Tim to Ailey. 

“ Signs on it, I should be,” she said, “ when I find you 
hanging up your cap in that quarter.” 

“ They are two fine girls, them daughters of old Clark- 
son, Miss Jenny and Miss Nelly, an’ I’m sure ” 

“ That they would just be the very ones to suit the 
likes of you,” said Ailey, making for the door, and pur- 
sued by Tim. 

Once outside, these young people walked arm-in-arm 
for a short distance. 

“ Has Mary consented to accompany Barney, do you 
think, Ailey? ” inquired Tim. 

“ I’m afraid not,” she said ; “ I might as well say, I’m 
sure she hasn’t.” 

“ Well, they look thoroughly reconciled, at any rate,” 
said Tim ; “ an’ troth that’s a comfort, I can assure you ; 
for poor Barney was nearly broken-hearted.” 

“And so was Mary herself, poor girl,” added Ailey, 
sympathetically. “I suppose,” she continued, “there 
would be little use trying to get Barney to forego his in- 
tentions.” 

“ No use whatever,” said Tim, “ an’ I’m almost certain 
that you’ll learn the cause from Mary herself, before to- 
morrow ; at least, Barney told me he would explain his 
reasons fully to her, giving leave at the same time to tell 
them to you.” 

Ailey was downcast. Her little plan was defeated. If 
Barney had reasons which would urge him to go to 
America, she might not hope to make him change his 
mind. This, however, was not the cause of her dejec- 


51 


The Lost Rosary. 

tion ; but she had hoped to make her own plans — which 
she determined to put into execution whenever she saw 
Tim — a means to procure a change in those of Barney. 

Tim offered the girl a sum of money to make prepa- 
rations for the day that was to make him the happiest 
man in Donegal. Ailey seemed in no hurry to accept 
that mark of Tim’s goodness, which the young man in- 
terpreted to mean a delicacy on her part to accept a 
money gift. 

“ You need have no scruple, dear Ailey, in making use 
of this small sum,” said Tim. “ Any reluctance to take 
it, and spend it, would make me believe that you objected 
to it on account of its value ; but I assure you ” 

“ There now, that’ll do,” cried Ailey. “ I know that 
what you say is only a trick to make your kindness easi- 
ly accepted. But it’s not that, Tim, that troubles me.” 
And the color came and went on Ailey’s cheek as she es- 
sayed to continue the conversation. Tim half suspected, 
by her appearance, what was coming. “ You know, dear 
Tim,” she said, slowly, and the words were like to choke 
her, u after what has happened between Mary and Barney 
it would ill become me, who owes so much to my cousin, 
and to uncle and aunt, to even seriously think of mar- 
riage at the present. They would all — aye, every one of 
them — think that my example would have a bad effect 
on Mary’s mind ; and it is better, all things considered, 
to postpone our wedding till we see how matters stand 
hereafter.” 

“ An’ that means, I suppose, that you give up the idea, 
also, of going to America?” inquired Tim. 

“ For the present, yes,” answered Ailey. 

“ Very well,” he said, quite composedly. “ Perhaps it’s 
all for the best.” Tim was satisfied, and did not push 
the matter further. They both returned. 

Noble Irish girls ! gifted and good, tender and chary of 
each other’s feelings and affections. What noble traits 


52 


The Lost Rosary. 

of character are thine! How unselfish, how watchful 
and thoughtful of each other. How willing to make any 
and every sacrifice, even in such matters of moment as 
that of marriage, rather than afford the barest excuse of 
wounding each other’s susceptibility. Which was the 
greater, Mary or Ailey? The one who voluntarily sur- 
rendered her hopes and affections in order to please her 
aged parents, whose chief reason for forbidding her mar- 
riage was one of selfishness, or the other who chose not 
to see her own happiness in the ascendant while her 
cousin had surrendered hers to what she considered duty. 

Who may decide ? 

The old Irish saw relieves us of any difficulty — •“ Both 
is best.” 


The Lost Rosary. 


53 


CHAPTER VII. 

AT SEA — OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCES. 

“ Build me straight, O worthy Master, 

Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, 

That shall laugh at all disaster, 

And with wave and whirlwind wrestle.” 

On the first of June, 1845, the good ship “ St. Patrick” 
sailed from Liverpool for New York, with a human car- 
go of six hundred souls. On board this ship were Ber- 
nard McAuley and Timothy Heggarty — two young men 
who “ kept themselves by themselves, ” as an old Irish 
woman remarked. There were also from the same place, 
Farmer Clarkson, his wife, and Jenny and Nelly Clarkson. 

What a strange assemblage of people were gathered 
together in the steerage of that ship. The large major- 
ity of the passengers were Irish, and of these there was 
every description of every class of people, old and young, 
good and bad; some comfortable, others poor; some with 
cash in their possession, others without a penny; some 
well provisioned, others without a bite to eat other than 
the ship’s allowance ; some, and they were the fewest 
number, with some prospects before them on landing ; 
others going out on speculation, ready to face and to dare 
hardships of any kind, rather than submit to those at 
home, without even a chance throughout life to better 
their miserable condition. As a rule, all were light- 
hearted. They had passed the bitter ordeal of leave- 
taking with friends and relations ; they had looked for 


54 


The Lost Rosary. 

the last time on the graves of parents and children, 
gazed tenderly and affectionately on the well-remembered 
spots of their childhood, with feelings which no pen has 
ever yet or ever shall be able to describe. Some had 
left fathers and mothers, and sisters and brothers; 
some had left wives and young families, dependent on 
the mercies of a cold and callous world, who sustained 
themselves with the thought that, with God’s help, be- 
fore long, they would be able to send the first remit- 
tance to cheer the desolate homes they had left forever. 
Others again were there, whose families were indirectly 
the cause of their expatriation. Parents, whose want of 
forethought and foolish notions about their children, had 
permitted themselves to be wrecked in the middle pas- 
sage of life, relying solely on the strength of the ship’s 
hull, rather than on the proper management of the 
ship’s sails, that were carrying them and theirs over life’s 
billows. 

That ship, the “ St. Patrick,” was a miniature of the 
world’s life. Two passions were predominant in the 
minds of the emigrants : pure and unalloyed love ; open 
and undisguised hatred. How strange that such men- 
tal antitheses could live and flourish at the same time in 
one human breast. Both passions were absorbing, and 
yet they were co-existent. Love asserted its supremacy 
and filled their whole being. Hatred, the opposite, most 
antagonistic and repugnant to love, was welcomed and 
fostered with as much assiduity as love itself. 

There are lessons here for the statesman, if he will con- 
descend to learn them at such an humble source. These 
lessons are worth a world full of statistics, for they pre- 
cede them, and are the cause, the other being but the 
effect. This hatred extended to those who were the au- 
thors of the desolation that afflicted the people who were 
driven from their homes. The spirit of religion battled 
strongly for possession of the minds of those so afflicted, 


55 


The Lost Rosary. 

and whatever result followed, was the change of hatred 
from persons to principles of government. The love 
owed much of its intensity to the hatred that we speak 
of, for the sufferings of those left behind induce 1 the 
one and helped the other. 

It was a matter of considerable consolation to those 
of the passengers, who knew it, to find that two young 
clergymen had taken passage in the same ship. These 
were young missionary priests braving dangers early in 
life, so as to follow their own people, driven forth by the 
cruelties of landlord tyranny to seek the means of liv- 
ing far away from the spots they loved dearest of all on 
earth. These clergymen were but lately ordained, and 
as they walked the quarter-deck arm-in-arm, engaged in 
lively conversation, not a few unhappy hearts took cour- 
age, and felt their desolation of spirit disappear. 

“ God bless them, for two fine young cratures,” said 
an old woman to a crony beside her. 

“ Amen !” replied the other. “ It’s the aisy conscience 
they have, dear, as ye can see by the music o’ their 
laugh.” 

“ Wasn’t God good to us wid the luck that brought 
them on board ? ” continued the first speaker. 

“ Musha, then, true for ye ; but, sure, it’s just when we 
don’t desarve a single blessin’, that heaven sends them in 
pairs.” 

“ D’ye hear that, Barney ? ” asked Tim. “ The ould 
Faith is strong, even on the ocean.” 

“ Do you know the old woman ? ” inquired Barney. 

“ Which of them ? ” 

“ The one who spoke last.” 

“ Not I. How should I know her ? ” 

“ I do,” said Barney, approaching the pair of old peo- 
ple, who were seated on an old barrel, and partly remov- 
ed from the general throng who crowded the deck, for 
the day was warm and fine. 


56 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ If Moll Hanley isn’t dead, I see her sitting croning 
there this blessed day,” said Barney, holding out his 
hand to the old woman whom he addressed. 

“ Musha, then, heaven be praised, it’s yourself that’s 
here, Barney McAuley, when I didn’t expect to see a 
friend or neighbor before landin’ in Ameriky.” 

“ Faith it’s just myself, an’ heartily glad I am to see 
you, Moll. But how on earth did it happen that I never 
saw you till this minute ? ” 

“ Och, dear, sure it was the sickness kept me down be- 
low ; an’ wasn’t I just as good as dead, but for the kind- 
ness of this good-hearted woman here, Mrs. McGlone, 
who never left me a minute by myself.” 

Tim was listening to the conversation, and whenever 
he heard the name of McGlone mentioned, he stood clos- 
er to the old woman, and in a few minutes was recogniz- 
ed by that person. 

Tim was rejoiced that Barney had found an acquaint- 
ance; while Mrs. McGlone was the same to find that 
Moll Hanley had her heart cheered in like manner. 

It was Barney’s time now to wonder at Tim, and Moll’s 
to express her astonishment at Mrs. McGlone’s good 
luck. • 

“ Is there never a bit o’ tobaccy in the company? ” in- 
quired Moll, “ that we may have the pleasure of a smoke 
and a chat together.” 

“ Troth there is,” replied Barney ; “ I’ve lots of it, an’ 
mayn’t we use it up as much as we like, for there’s 
plenty I’m tould in the land we’re goin’ to, of the same 
tobaccy.” 

“Hot exactly the same,” said Mrs. McGlone; “but 
there’s plenty, as you say, an’ a great deal better than 
any you were used to at home.” 

I was about to say, that it was a pity that two such fine 
old Irishwomen were addicted to the use of the tobacco- 
pipe occasionally, but, on second consideration, deem it 


57 


The Lost Rosary. 

better to leave the reader to his own opinions as to 
whether it was or was not a pity. A smoke of the pipe, 
even in an old woman, is just as harmless as in an old 
man ; and it is not the first time that I have observed a 
great deal of virtue among these same old folk — aye, vir- 
tue and knowledge combined, that, when thoroughly ex- 
amined, would make many of us ashamed. So we will 
allow them to smoke away, and enjoy the fragrance of 
the weed, with a taste of something else, discovered in a 
corner of the trunk of the expert Tim, who knew the ex- 
act spot where to put his hand on it, while we listen to 
a few remarks of the Clarksons. 

Jenny and Nelly Clarkson were both fine-looking girls, 
and had attracted a good deal of attention from the mo- 
ment they came on board. The majority of the young 
girls around them were quiet and reserved in their man- 
ners, seldom speaking in a tone louder than a whisper, 
while many of them were buried in grief. Not a few of 
them envied J enny and Nelly Clarkson for being so light- 
hearted, which arose no doubt from the fact of their be- 
ing accompanied by both father and mother. So they 
thought. 

These girls would, in all probability, have been lighter 
hearted still, but for the restraint of their father at least ; 
the mother was to them of very small account, although 
they were far from letting that be known. The father 
was rather weak-minded in permitting himself to have 
been ruled by his wife, who was many years his junior ; 
but 'such was the case, and the result was, there they 
were that day bound for a new land, when they might 
have been enjoying the sweets and comforts of their own 
country home. But Mrs. Clarkson looked upon her 
daughters as rare and gifted girls, who would, in all prob- 
ability, have been mated to some ignorant clodhoppers 
at home, if they had been stupid enough to remain in the 
old country. Her girls required a little license occasion- 


58 


The Lost Rosary. 

ally. They were fit “to appear in society” and why 
bury herself and them in obscurity merely to please the 
erratic temper of their father, who knew little — and it 
might have been added, cared less — about what was due 
to young ladies ? She did often wish that her lot had 
been cast otherwise than it was ; however, that was past 
remedying now ; and there was nothing for it but to bear 
with “ her troubles ” on account of her darling girls. 
Thus reasoned Mrs. Clarkson, who naturally enough 
thought something of herself, and was vain enough, al- 
though the mother of two young women, to seek for the 
smiles of some of the male passengers, and return the 
compliment whenever paid her. She knew both Tim 
and Barney ; had heard something of them, and, as they 
were “ good-looking young fellows,” would have permit- 
ted them to address her daughters if they felt so inclined. 
Their inclinations did not make them so disposed. She 
would willingly have accorded them that liberty on board 
the vessel, as a means of attracting the attention of 
others ; but she laughed when she thought of the differ- 
ence between an acquaintance under such circumstances 
and when settled down in America. 

Neither Barney nor Tim were edified by any knowl- 
edge of the attention thus paid them by Mrs. Clarkson. 
They were stupid enough to relish the conversation of 
old Moll and Mrs. McGlone, and to exhibit by their hearty 
laughter the interest they felt in said conversation. 

“ Did you ever hear the like?” remarked Jenny Clark- 
son to her sister, as the laughter reached their ears. 

“ Och, bless you, what do they know, poor ignorant 
fellows ? ” replied sister Nelly. “ And what a pair of old 
crones they have taken up with, to be sure.” 

“Good enough for them, I should think,” remarked 
the mother. 

“ I wonder,” continued that exemplary personage and 
proof against seasickness— all such women are proof 


59 


The Lost Rosary. 

against the *like ; account for it, physiologists, if you 
can — “ how that affair was broken off between them, and 
the two cousins — what’s this you call them ? ” 

“ Mary and Ailey O’Donnell,” replied Jenny. 

“ Yes, to be sure,” replied her mother, “ I did hear 
some one say that old Corny, Mary’s father, wouldn’t 
listen to any proposal of marriage, — while her mother was 
just dying to see the pair together.” 

“ Oh, what matter,” replied Nelly Clarkson, “ the bit 
was as good as the sup, I presume.” 

“ I hope none of them will bother us ; but see, as true 
as death, there’s father speaking to them,” uttered Jen- 
ny, quite hurriedly. 

Farmer Clarkson had often spoken to the young men 
since he came on board, but none of the family were 
aware of that most extraordinary act, it would appear. 
Terrible things do happen at times, even at sea. 

Moving along with the farmer, Barney and Tim ap- 
proached the sisters and mother, and inquired how they 
were getting on, — did they like the voyage, and were 
they comfortable ? 

It was a trial of speed among the three, as to who 
would be the first to speak. They answered the inqui- 
ries, and hoped the young men were comfortably situat- 
ed in their part of the ship. 

After half an hour’s rapid and pleasant conversation 
the party separated : the young ladies, and their mother, 
too, for that part of it, expressing themselves in a man- 
ner quite different from their former remarks. In fact, 
they were all three blessed with convenient memories, 
and speedily forgot what they had said, even to each 
other. 


60 


The Lost Rosary . 


CHAPTER TUI. 

A STORM AT SEA — REFLECTIONS THEREON. 

“ Then fell her straining topmasts, 

Hanging tangled in the shrouds ; 

And her sails were loosened and lifted, 

And blown away like clouds.” 

Fourteen days at sea, and everything had gone well. 
Every lonely heart was beginning to raise itself. The 
passengers had nearly all become acquainted, one with 
the other, and song and dance, and jest enlivened the 
monotony of ship life. The heart- wrung pangs of sep- 
aration were, if not forgotten, fast yielding to the gentle 
wooings of inspiring Hope. The merry laugh, with 
its silvery tones, displaced the smothered moan. The 
rosy cheeks of youthful maidens, so long bedewed with 
tears of sorrow, now beamed in all their guileless beauty, 
showing the gladness that reigned within, and tinged 
their thoughts with the light of a happy future. 

The moon rose from the ocean depths, like a globe of 
fire. The dull red beams she sent athwart the waste of 
waters, showed the rising billows of the sea, cold and 
angry looking, and sending forth a deadened hollow 
murmur. A few clouds sped quickly overhead, followed 
by a sharp and broken whistling of the wind. The rig- 
ging of the ship began to creak uneasily, and a weird- 
like music played among the shrouds. The glass gave 
indications of unsettled weather, and the ship rolled un- 
easily. In a little sho began to heave, and rose and fell 


61 


The Lost Rosary . 

in obedience to the whitening waves on which she rode. 
Suddenly a sea dashed across her bows, and the noble 
craft staggered with the force of the blow. That was the 
indication of a storm which the skipper had foreseen for 
hours before, and did his best to guard against. 

The passengers had gone below, but were soon awak- 
ened by the unusual motion of the vessel. They looked 
uneasily at one another, and not a few were flung back 
into the full horror of the sickness they had but lately 
passed. In a couple of hours the storm had fairly broken 
over the gallant bark. At one moment she was lifted by 
a giant wave, to be plunged in the next down, down in- 
to the gulf below. Anon, she lay on her beam ends, as 
if unable to right herself again. It was during these 
struggles the people suffered most. They held their 
breath in painful suspense, and a dead silence prevailed, 
save when some exclamation reached the ear, such as, 
“ O God, we’re lost ! ” and the stoutest heart quailed at 
the despairing tone of the sufferer. 

“Double reef every inch of sail,” shouted the skipper, 
overhead, “ and keep her head close to the wind — mind, 
there ! ” 

“Aye, aye, sir,” was the response; but the voices 
seemed to proceed from treble their distance. 

“ Fasten down the hatchways.” 

“ They’re down, sir,” was the reply. • 

Yes ! they were nailed down ; there was no alternative 
on that dreadful night. It was death without, and 
death within. The storm raged with ruthless fury, and 
the bright hopes experienced only a few hours pre- 
vious, blended with the sunshine of promise, were driven 
back upon the heart, black and despairing. The berths 
of the ship became stifling with an imprisoned mias- 
ma, — while seas washed overhead, and swept the deck of 
every movable article. 

Louder and fiercer, was the war of the elements; 


62 


The Lost Rosary. 

crash followed crash, as the stout ship tried, like a thing 
of life, to face the power that beset her. A moment, 
and every timber strained and shook, like the nerves of 
a full-blooded steed, suddenly reigned in by the hands 
of its rider. 

“ Heavens ! did you feel that shiver ? ” asked Barney of 
his companion. 

“ Feel it, aye ; who could miss feeling it,” replied Tim. 

A report, like the boom of a cannon, was heard over- 
head, — then another — and another ! 

“ God an’ His blessed Mother presarve us,” exclaimed 
poor Moll Hanley, “ what is that ? ” 

Then there arose a long and piteous wail among the 
females, old and young. They had tried to suppress 
their fears, but the awful noises overhead seemed created 
to banish hope from their hearts. 

The mainsail was rent in a thousand pieces, and the 
mast that gallantly bore it was snapped in twain, as if a 
cannon ball had struck it. The ship lay on her side, dis- 
abled, and as if frightened to rise from the trough of 
the sea. Every hand was at work to clear away the 
wreck, and these indications of life formed the only con- 
solation to those distressed hearts below. 

Hundreds of young women were engaged in what 
they believed were the last prayers they would ever offer 
to God in this life ; others were speechless with silent 
horror ; while the strong beatings of many hearts proved 
the terror of the men. 

Hour after hour passed away. It seemed the reflex of 
eternity. Not a few were pitched here and there through- 
out the compartments allotted them, — while others, 
again, overcome by the sickness engendered by foul air, 
lay stretched like corpses on the floor. 

How like to the voyage of life was that passage of the 
“ St. Patrick ! ” Its first days out, were the spring of life — 
everything happy and cheerful ; then came the summer — 


63 


The Lost Rosary . 

joyous and short-lived; and the winter, with its storms 
and wrecks, sufferings and privations, fears and tribula- 
lations. But not a soul was lost ! And there was a com- 
munion of prayer, too, in the noble ship, unknown, for 
the most part, to those who participated in it, and joined 
in by those thousands of miles removed ! 

So it is with those who have the happiness of being 
born in the Catholic Church : storms and tempests as- 
sail her children; the blackness of despair surrounds 
the tortured soul, and destruction seems inevitable. 
Bear up, brave soul, thou art overwhelmed with dark- 
ness and suffering, but prayers ascend in thy behalf. 
See ! a light beaming in the young East — fresh and holy 
as the first dawn in Eden. The goodly mast is gone, that 
bore thee gallantly through the storm, but Heaven has 
still a smile for thee. The first soft streaks of day are 
blushing at the work of night. The storm is passed, and 
gladdened hearts are busy repairing the good ship’s loss. 
Profound thankfulness now stirs the souls of all who 
were endangered. No purer, holier offering ever ascend- 
ed to God, than the humble tribute of those lonely girls, 
those pure daughters of Erin, who had risked the storms 
of the sea, and those of the world, to prove their devoted 
affection to those who had cared for them when unable 
to care for themselves. 

Storms and trials you will meet, brave hearts, — but re- 
member your night of storms upon the sea. Tempta- 
tions will surround you; sin will encompass you; aye, as 
the dark waters surround you now. Then remember 
your only hope. Call back the Faith that saved you 
when Hope was trembling at your hearts. That will be 
your anchor, brave Irish girls, when alone and battling 
against every storm. Cling to it, like the tempest-tossed 
mariner who feels his heart grow stout and warm with- 
in him, as he gazes on the anchor of his ship. Varied 
the forms and designs of the quicksands and shoals 


64 


The Lost Rosary. 

that will beset thee. Thy virgin modesty will be shock- 
ed, and thy ears assailed betimes with language un- 
known to thee before. Fear not. Vice will cunningly 
allure you, with its deformities hidden beneath the garb 
of wealth. Be on thy guard. Soft words and honeyed 
speech will rain upon thy hearing, in order to reach the 
purity of thy hearts to destruction. Be as those who 
are deaf. Foul words and practices will cross thy paths ; 
curses will fall around thee, but remember the waves 
against the sides of the ship. If thy souls be troubled, 
remember the roseate dawn that followed the Night of 
Storms ! Be true to the old father, and the old mother. 
Let the music of their voices be always in your ears, to 
guide and guard you. Remember their gray hairs, and 
their faltering voice. Mind the Old Chapel and its hum- 
ble Cross. Think often of the hours you spent within 
its walls; of the evenings spent at the “four roads.” 
Think of the old hearthstone, and the bush before the 
door of the cabin. But, before and above all, think of 
God ! Be cheerful, too ; enjoy life hearti- 

ly and well. Let thy temper be as sweet as the dews of 
May. Laugh till you’re tired; work with a will; get 
married ; but mind — aye, there’s the rub, girls — mind 
the choice. Never let your hands be sullied by a ring 
that the church cannot bless. Your own, and the 
salvation of others, aye, of generations, depend on that 
one act of your lives. Choose poverty, rather than run 
the risk of marriage with one that professes not your 
faith. You need not wait to examine the advice here 
tendered. It admits of no examination. Under any cir- 
cumstances, a mixed marriage is an unmixed evil. The 
trials and cares of life are numerous enough, under the 
best circumstances. Add not to these the never-ending 
strife of union with one who differs from you in religion. 
Not even if your intended partner be of easy mind, and 
careless of his own belief. This often aggravates such 


65 


The Lost Rosary. 

unions, for indifference in one partner often begets the 
same in the other. Above all, a mixed marriage in 
America, where you will be removed from the holy in- 
fluences of home, and the care of those who are dear to 
you, and you to them, is worse, a thousand-fold, than un- 
der other circumstances. Fly the very thought of such 
unions, as you would the vilest snare. Heed not the ex- 
ample of others, whose pride and passion lead them to 
look on such things as quite common, and of no conse- 
quence. Beware even of associating with those who 
might lead you into such a state. 


66 


The Lost Rosary. 


CHAPTEK IX. 

A PICTURE OF A DESERTED FATHER — FARMER CLARK- 
SON’S SICKNESS AND DEATH — A REVELATION. 

“ O how blessed are ye whose toils are ended! 

Who, through death, have unto God ascended ! 

Ye have arisen 

From the cares that keep us still in prison.” 

Fever had broken out in the ship, but fortunately 
not till she had nearly made the passage. Farmer Clark- 
son was among the first stricken down. His wife ap- 
peared attentive, but the only real attention paid to the 
poor man was given by Barney and Tim. His daughters 
seldom approached him, but they proved their devotion 
to their sick parent by a good deal of crying and lamen- 
tation. They were very distressed in mind, but they 
were so frightened of fever I Strange that strangers 
were not so frightened ! 

Barney and Tim were almost constant in their atten- 
tions to the poor sufferer. Even during the night they 
sat in turns by his bedside, ministering to his wants 
with a devotion, under the circumstances, almost heroic. 

Only a few days after the farmer had been stricken 
down, the joyful word “land” was heard to resound 
throughout the ship. 

That word passed like electricity through a multitude 
of hearts, but the poor farmer heeded it not, or, if he 
did, could not join in the general happiness of the other 
voyagers. 


67 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ How is he this morning ? ” inquired Tim, as he went 
down to the little hospital to relieve Barney of his sick 
watch. 

“ He’s sleepin’ now, an’ has been for the last two hours, 
nearly,” replied Barney. “Come, we’ll both go up 
above,” he continued, “ I want to speak to you.” 

The young men ascended, Tim observing that Barney 
looked rather pale. 

‘‘The old man talked himself half dead, last night,” 
commenced Barney. 

“ He seemed inclined to speak a good deal with my- 
self,” said Tim ; “ but the doctor gave instructions that 
he should be kept as quiet as possible, an’ so I told him 
not to hurt himself speaking.” 

“ Did any of the family come down when you were be- 
low ? ” asked Barney. 

“ The divil a one of them entered the place ; an’, may 
my ears forever deceive me, if I didn’t hear his wife laugh- 
ing, after I left you.” 

“ Listen here,” said Barney ; “ do you see that water 
there ? ” 

“ I should think so,” answered Tim, looking his friend 
full in the face, as if to satisfy himself regarding the 
speaker. 

“ Well, Tim, I feel as if I could jump into it, I’m so 
glad this morning.” 

“ Oh, we’re all glad, for that part of it, thank God,” 
said Tim, believing that Barney referred to the dim out- 
line of Long Island, that lay before them like a steady 
mist. 

“ Nothing of the sort, man alive,” said Barney, com- 
prehending the other’s meaning; “ the captain told me 
we might be three or four days yet before we landed ; but 
it’s not about that I want to speak.” 

“ In the name of goodness, then, what is it ? ” 

Barney then rehearsed to Tim, that before he was five 


68 


The Lost Rosary. 

minutes beside old Clarkson, he turned toward him and 
asked him for a drink. He was very weak, and not fit 
to speak, scarcely. He asked Barney if he was afraid to 
stoop over to him, and keep his ear near to his mouth, 
as he wished to have a talk with him. Barney replied 
that, with the help of God, he was not in the least afraid 
of anything. Old Clarkson then slowly rehearsed to 
him the leading incidents of his married life. His wife 
was a Protestant, and he was a Catholic. For the first 
four years he had everything his own way. His wife 
was baptized, so were his children. This much he in- 
sisted upon having performed, and he regretted it, in his 
wife’s case, ever afterward. He thought that his own 
good example would, in time, make her sincerely at- 
tached to the faith she had embraced, but he found out 
his mistake when too late. Then he got ill-tempered, 
and tried to force a regular observance of religious prac- 
tices. It was of no use — she laughed at him for his 
pains. He got down-hearted and careless, thus giving 
his wife full power over his daughters. She ruled him, 
and gave them their will in all things. He saw the dan- 
ger, but neither tried nor cared to prevent it. Indiffer- 
ence speedily set in, and, from being a good, practical 
Catholic, he became both ashamed and afraid of acknowl- 
edging himself as such. Now he was stricken by the 
hand of God — stretched, as he believed, on his bed of 
death, without the slightest aid or chance of saving his 
unfortunate soul. 

Barney comforted the old man, and told him, if he de- 
sired it, that even then and there he might obtain the 
services of a priest. The poor man looked wildly about 
him, and inquired if Barney was mocking him. When he 
learned that there was a possibility of having a Catholic 
clergyman beside him, the tears streamed down his 
cheeks. Shortly afterwards, Barney proceeded to search 
for the berths of the two young priests whom he had 


G9 


Tlte Lost Bosary. 

seen walking the quarter-deck. For some time he was 
unsuccessful, and he received more opposition than as- 
sistance from the person in charge of the cabin, who 
insisted there were no clergymen on board. It must 
have been the noise of voices in altercation that awoke 
some of the passengers ; for, no sooner were the words 
“ priests ” and “ clergymen ” so distinctly pronounced, 
than one of those alluded to instantly arose, and ap- 
peared on the scene to learn what was the matter. Bar- 
ney took the gentleman aside, and promptly informed 
him of the state of matters with old Clarkson. The cap- 
tain and doctor of the ship were very anxious to keep 
the matter dark, that a fever patient was on board ; but 
Barney considered it right to make the young priest ac- 
quainted with the fact beforehand. The priest thanked 
Barney for his kindness to the poor man, and a few 
minutes afterward saw him beside the sick bed, minis- 
tering comfort, consolation and relief to him. The cler- 
gyman saw and spoke to Barney, after his lengthened 
interview with Clarkson, and told him he had acted 
very properly and wisely in what he did, adding — 

“ But there’s no use, Tim, tellin’ what he said about 
myself.” 

“ To be sure, there’s every use,” urged Tim. 

“Well, then,” added Barney, “he said there was lots 
of luck in store for me ; to keep always prepared and 
ready to do a good action for another, an’ there was no 
fear of me, here or hereafter.” 

Tim was glad to hear all he had heard, and both pro- 
ceeded to see how their patient was getting on. He ap- 
peared better, but paler. He smiled when he saw his 
two friends, and shook hands with them. He turned on 
his side, as if desirous of keeping quiet, and Barney and 
Tim quietly withdrew. 

“ He won’t long be a trouble to any one,” remarked 
Barney. 


70 The Lost Rosary. 

“ I think we should inform his wife an’ family,” said 
Tim. 

“ I know it would be right to do so, if they were the 
right sort of people ; but, in my opinion, it might do 
him no good.” 

“ If they were the right sort of people, it’s not to the 
care of strangers they would have left him,” Tim bitterly 
repeated. 

Had these two generous-hearted young men only 
known it, they might have saved themselves any talk on 
the matter. 

Poor Clarkson’s soul was in the presence of God ! He 
felt from the first that the hand of death was on him, and 
the bitter reflections that he should die in an emigrant 
ship, and without the least chance of being comforted 
in his last hours by the sacraments he had so long neg- 
lected, caused him many a pang. It never entered his 
mind that, by any possibility, a priest could be on board, 
and the intelligence by Barney McAuley nearly upset 
him. He thought he perceived in this fact, the last and 
crowning mercy of God. The conflict of his tortured 
mind, in looking back upon the past, now that his end 
was so near, and the intelligence conveyed to him by 
Barney, caused a wonderful change in the old man. 
That change continued, and after the priest left him, with 
his blessings still warm upon his head, the poor sufferer 
experienced a peace he never experienced before. His 
time was short, but not too short for Him who knoweth 
not time, and while continuing in the act of returning 
thanks to God, poor Clarkson breathed his last within 

SIGHT OF LAND! 

When it became known that Farmer Clarkson was 
dead, his wife and daughters gave full vent to their grief. 
It may appear hard to judge them thus, but it did seem 
as if they desired to show to others their tenderness of 
heart, rather than indulge in silent grief. 


71 


The Lost Rosary . 

The captain, without being asked, kindly permitted 
the corpse to remain where it was, without hurting the 
feelings of the distressed family, by consigning it to a 
watery grave. He did this as he was so near to port, and 
in order to afford the privilege of decent burial to the 
deceased. 

Tim Heggarty maintained afterwards, that he believed 
that the captain did that in order to punish Mrs. Clark- 
son with the expense of burying her husband. It may 
have been an uncharitable thought of Tim’s, but he ad- 
hered to it nevertheless, and thought he had good 
grounds for his suspicion. 

At length, the order was given to let go the anchor, 
and now all was bustle and turmoil, preparing for dis- 
embarkation. 

There was the noble ship, weather-beaten, partly dis- 
masted, and bearing all the signs of a stiff and hazard- 
ous voyage. Arrived in port, it bore the appearance of 
a thing of life with the marks of the struggles it had 
passed through. It seemed as if proud of its own con- 
duct, as the Stars and Stripes were run aloft. It felt a 
victory had been won, just like a soldier who has passed 
through the carnage of the battle-field. Its cuts and 
scars were its honors, not to be hidden, but to feel proud 
of, indeed. How different this ship from many of our 
steamships at the present time, that are speedily cleaned 
up, with their portions of wreck covered from sight by 
pieces of white-washed sail-cloth, lest the ugly spots 
should be seen by those who are about to take a passage. 
The first reminds us of a gallant soldier, neither afraid 
nor ashamed to show the proofs of the siege he passed 
through ; the other reminds us of the shifts and strata- 
gems of a widow desirous of putting on her best looks, 
to entice many into her company. 


72 


The Lost Rosary . 


CHAPTER X. 

MOLL HANLEY’S ADVICE TO THE YOUNG- GIBLS — BAE- 

NEY AND TIM FALL IN WITH NEW FEIENDS — ALICK 

AND MBS. M’SWEENEY. 

“ Good girls ! — poor things now far from home, 

Who crossed the ocean’s darkling foam; 

There’s many a way of sin and shame — 

And many a way of peace and fame.” 

All are now landed, and the majority are engaged in 
seeking work, Barney and Tim among the rest. There 
are at least one hundred and twenty poor and desolate 
girls, whose ages average from eighteen or twenty, to 
thirty-five. The large majority are all young. 

Moll Hanley and Mrs. McGlone are giving their part- 
ing advice to those whose acquaintance they made on 
board. 

“ Mind now, girls,” said Moll, in the presence of some 
strangers who were present, and who had the appearance 
of employers on the look-out for hands; “keep your 
eyes open. You’re just as sharp an’ as smart as the best 
you’ll serve. You needn’t be a bit impudent, nor you 
needn’t be a bit cast down or afraid. If anyone injures 
you, ye have the laws that’ll protect ye ; not all as one as 
the place we all know (this was evidently an allusion to 
Ireland, although Moll did not like to implicate her own 
country with the mal-administration of English law), an’ 
hould up your heads, not above your shupayriors, but 
above a dirty action,” and Moll looked as if she were the 
appointed guardian of her sex in all America. 


73 


Tice Lost Rosary. 

“ Mind everything Mrs. McGlone tould you,” contin- 
ued Moll ; “ she knows more nor I, for she’s been to 
Ameriky before, an’ you may rely on her advice, an’ nev- 
er forget the ould faith nor the ould shamrock, God bless 
both o’ them.” 

“ Amen ! ” was the reply to Moll’s last words. It was 
pleasing to observe the confidence this poor woman’s 
words raised in those whom she addressed. 

“ Well done, Moll Hanley,” said Barney, approaching 
her with extended hand. “ Are you goin’ to remain in 
New York, or do you travel farther into the country ? ” 

“ Both of us,” replied Moll, speaking for herself and 
companion, “ will remain in New York City, an’ if we 
can get a place, troth it’s a good lodgin’ house we intend 
to start, where neither son nor daughter of the ould 
country will ever have cause to complain.” 

“ By this an’ by that,” said Tim, “ but if that’s your in- 
tention we’ll both be customers, if we remain in this 
place.” 

Barney followed suit, and, after getting an address 
from Mrs. McGlone, where she or Moll might be found at 
any time previous to their starting business on their own 
account, they all took leave of each other, Barney direct- 
ing his steps to a friend’s house, where he expected that 
a letter from Mary would be waiting for him, and proba- 
bly one from Ailey for Tim. 

The house to which our friends Barney and Tim di- 
rected their steps, was the humble but comfortable home 
of Alick McSweeney, a distant relation of Barney, who 
had left Ireland many years ago, and was then a married 
man, with a fine young rising family. 

The meeting between the friends was hearty and 
agreeable, and repaid, at least to some extent, the trials 
and sufferings of Barney and Tim. Alick’s wife was a 
woman of very considerable intelligence, and showed her 
worth by the admirable manner in which she seconded 


74 


The Lost Rosary. 

her husband’s efforts to get on in the world. She had 
left Ireland when a mere child ; both her parents died 
shortly after they had landed in America, and she was 
left completely at the mercy of the world. She engaged 
at service, and, by minding her own business instead of 
minding the business of others, she succeeded well ; and 
when Alick McSweeney first saw her, she was the posses- 
sor of more dollars than her intended husband. 

“ That’s as true as I’m living,” said Alick, addressing 
Barney and Tim in presence of his wife. 

“ But it’s also true,” said Mrs. McSweeney, “ that you 
never dreamed of my having so much as a penny at the 
time you came gallivanting after me, and hurrying .me 
to get married.” 

“ Now, do you hear that,” replied her husband, with 
a knowing wink ; “ sure it’s because I knew you were 
hiding your money and all your good qualities from my 
sight, that I was so fond of you.” 

“ Sorra bit of it, Alick,” laughingly replied his partner ; 
“ and if it hadn’t been that you never inquired if I had 
anything of the kind, I wouldn’t have given you the 
least encouragement, that I wouldn’t, and right well you 
know it.” 

“ Eight again, old girl,” said Alick, slapping his wife 
familiarly and affectionately on the shoulder. “Such 
thoughts never crossed my mind. I just said to myself, 
well, if that girl has served strangers so well, and passed 
through New York life so scathlessly, by my dickens 
but she ought to be able to undertake the duties of a 
good and faithful wife to an honest fellow like my- 
self.” 

“ There he goes, now ; only hear him, and you would 
think that nobody in all the world was as good as him- 
self.” 

“ And my wife along with me, for aren’t we two in 
one,” added Alick. 


75 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ Tim, I think that you an’ I will have to look sharply 
about us, if we wish to overtake Alick in the race,” said 
Barney. 

“ He has got too much of a start of us,” replied Tim ; 
“ an’ then look at the help he got.” 

“ Just look out for the same help,” said Alick; “but 
be as wise as I was, and don’t take the book by the 
cover.” 

“Who ever heard the like?” asked Mrs. McSweeney. 
“ You would just think ” 

“ That you were a duck of a good wife,” said her hus- 
band, drawing his seat closer to hers. “ There she sits, 
Barney,” he continued, “ and there’s not a girl in all 
America came through more nor she did. She had to 
face the strangers, when only a little girl. Temptations 
stood open pretty wide before her. Sometimes she had 
a good place, but oftener a bad one. The good places 
were those where, somehow, she never could remain long. 
She was laughed at, jeered, and jibed for a poor idola- 
trous thing, that it were a blessing to take care of against 
her will. She was a stinking piece of dried up goods 
if she refused to accompany other girls in their evening 
rambles; and many a hard, bitter hour she had of it, 
aihong her fellow Servants, if her work was better done 
or earlier finished, because she deprived herself of use- 
less idling. At other times, I have known her to be 
struck on the mouth, for being five minutes behind her 
time, when she was hurrying home through blinding 
sleet, after spending an hour in church, and that hour 
she might have spent in some low dancing saloon, if she 
had so pleased.” 

Barney and Tim wished to be informed on the matter 
of dancing saloons, and were somewhat surprised on 
learning their nature and character. 

“ There are few people who come to America,” said 
Mrs. McSweeney, “ especially those of my own kind, but 


76 


The Lost Rosary. 

can learn as much evil as good, if they are so inclined.” 

Both Tim and Barney listened attentively. 

“ The great difficulty,” added Alick’s wife, “ that young 
girls meet with here on their arrival, is their utter ina- 
bility to know those parties who surround them and ad- 
vise them how to act. The poor inexperienced girl, who 
has no friend here before her, often finds herself in a sad 
plight. Low lodging-houses are the only places, as a rule, 
that such poor girls can go to, and, dear only knows, they 
too often find themselves exposed in those very places to 
their first hard trials. They are oftentimes discouraged 
from making proper applications for work, so that they 
may remain longer than necessary with the keepers of 
those places. As soon as their last cent is spent, they 
are necessitated to part with little articles of dress, to 
meet the demands made daily on them, by the very ones 
who professed friendship for them on their first appear- 
ance, and who would be the first to turn them out of 
doors when all they had was gone.” 

“ You don’t mean to say,” inquired Barney, “ that lodg- 
ing-house keepers would act in that manner to poor 
friendless girls, who were detained from seeking for 
work by such parties themselves, an’ all for the sake of 
what they could wring from the emigrant’s poverty? ”* 

“ Troth, she’s right, Barney, in every word she has 
said,” replied Alick, with a shake of his head. “ An’ 
what’s more, many a girl she has saved from the worst 
of ruin, and at very considerable trouble to herself, too, 
that I know.” 

“Botheration! Alick, dear,” cried his spouse; “but 
haven’t you something for the two young men ? It’s just 
this minute that I’m thinking of it, — the letters, you 
know.” 

“ Thunder and turf! ” bawled out Alick, springing from 
his seat, and rushing to a cupboard in a corner of the 
room. “ Wasn’t it myself that knew all along that I was 


The Lost Rosary. 


77 


forgetting something. Here it is ; here they are, both 

of them; one for Mr. ” but, before Alick McSweeney 

had time to read the superscriptions, Barney had dashed 
toward him, and, getting one glance at the hand-writing, 
snatched them from him, handing one to Tim, while he 
nervously opened the other. 

The letters must have been very comforting to the 
young men, if the contents were to be judged by the hap- 
piness beaming on the face of Barney and the rosy 
smiles that played about the lips of Timothy Heggarty. 

“ Good news, I hope, boys,” suggested Alick. 

“ Musha, then, but your impudence still sticks to you,” 
remonstrated his wife. 

“ What harm is there in hoping, I would like to know ? ” 
he inquired. 

“No harm in the least,” said Barney. “ The news is 
good enough. This letter, Alick, is from a young woman 
at home, a friend of mine, an’ I hope to make her some- 
thing else before I die.” 

“ Bravo ! Barney,” exclaimed Alick. “ May I live to 
see you as happy a dog as I am myself.” 

“ And what of Tim’s little missive ? ” asked Mrs. Mc- 
Sweeney, seeing that “ Alick’s impudence still stuck to 
him,” in spite of her desire to improve his manners. 

“ Just as good, ma’am, as Barney’s, every bit of it; an’ 
from as good a girl as Magheramore can boast.” 

“ Her name?” inquired Mrs. McSweeney. 

“ Ailey O’Donnell,” replied Tim. 

“ Ailey O’Donnell !” repeated the good woman. “ Magh- 
eramore ! ” and she began to collect her thoughts, as if 
something strange had passed before her mind. 


78 


The Lost Rosary. 




CHAPTER XI. 

SEPARATION OF FRIENDS — BARNEY IN A NEW SPHERE. 

“ Where’er you go, be leal and true 
To Faith and Country ever ; 

These be your marks, my honest friend, 

Let naught them ever sever.” 

The letters received by Barney and Tim were welcome 
visitors. They had a home fragrance about them most 
grateful to the hearts of the receivers. They were pure 
and holy in their nature, and probably the young men 
thought them too sacred to lay open before the eyes of 
their friends, Mr. and Mrs. McSweeney. That is the on- 
ly way to account for their desire to conceal the heart- 
felt effusions which had reached them on their arrival in 
New York. 

Barney McAuley had received a tempting offer to en- 
gage with a gentleman at Port Jervis, N. Y. At first he 
refused, unless he were accompanied by friend Tim ; but 
the latter stoutly maintained that no such consideration 
should interfere with their “ first piece of good luck.” 

“ But I had it in my mind,” urged Barney, “ from the 
day we left home together, that in good fortune, or bad, 
we should stick to one another in the New World.” 

“ An’ I had the same thing before me,” replied Tim ; 
“ but it’s only for a while, an’ if the same offer were made 
to me, I’m afraid I should take it, whether the conditions 
included your company or not.” 

This was not exactly the truth ; but Tim endeavored to 


79 


The Lost Rosary. 

make himself believe that he would have acted as he 
said. The fact was, he saw that their prospects of work 
were neither so plentiful nor so numerous as he had ex- 
pected before landing, and he wished that Barney would 
not reject, on his account, the excellent offer he had re- 
ceived. 

“Well, if that is the way you see things,” said Barney, 
“ perhaps it is as well that I should go.” 

“ Of course it is,” urged Tim ; “ an’ then, only think 
that if I don’t succeed, sure I’ll have to ask you to ren- 
der me some assistance, till such time as I do fall in.” 

This finished the whole matter. Barney accordingly 
took a warm-hearted leave of Tim, the latter in all con- 
science feeling that he had been a thousand times better 
pleased if things had been so ordered that his cousin 
might have remained near to him. His departure was 
the renewal of sorrows lately experienced, but partly 
forgotten. 

For the first time since he left Ireland, Barney McAu- 
ley felt a bitter loneliness of heart, such as he had never 
felt before in all his life. He questioned within himself 
whether it were better to suffer separation from his 
friend Tim, for the advantages to be gained ; and, for a 
considerable time, debated whether he should not return. 
Did Tim feel as much as Barney ? That was a predomi- 
nant thought in Barney’s mind. There was the least 
tinge of selfishness in dwelling on it ; yet Barney did 
dwell on it, and, had he but known, poor Tim did feel the 
separation as keenly as possible. 

“But, sure, we didn’t come here all the way to indulge 
our friendship at the expense of our chances of success,” 
said Barney to himself, the first morning after his arrival 
at his new place. 

Quite right, Barney ! True friendship is valuable and 
pleasant, but must not be indulged in at the expense 
of the great battle of life. Neither is there any use in 
torturing oneself as to whether those we respect and 


80 


The Lost Rosary. 

love feel the pangs of separation as much as we do. 
There is generally many a good trait of character trace- 
able to this feeling, and we may rest assured that Barney 
McAuley was nothing the worse for such thoughts, es- 
pecially when we find his manly resolve brought quick- 
ly to his aid the reflection that the earnest work of life 
must not be interfered with by our friendships. 

Barney settled himself down to work, and, as he found 
that most things were new to him, he exerted himself 
to the utmost to learn all that was required of him, both 
for the purpose of pleasing his master, and with a care- 
ful eye to the future. In this he succeeded admirably, 
and shortly found that he had little time left to indulge 
his feelings. Contentment and work kept him in good 
health, and, when he found leisure on a Sunday after- 
noon, he did not forget to employ that leisure in writing 
to Mary O’Donnell, once to Ailey, and often to Tim. As 
he did not generally finish his letters at one sitting, he 
• had time to reflect; this reflection begot study, and 
proud was Mary O’Donnell to find that he aimed at ex- 
cellence in letter-writing, as well as in whatever related to 
his daily calling. A glance at one of his letters to Mary 
will enable us to see things that we would not other- 
wise learn concerning Barney. It was as follows : — 

Port Jervis, Sullivan Co., New York State, ) 
September 18, 1845. ) 

My Dear Mary:— T his is the third letter I have written you 
since I came to America. Of course, as I said in my first, Tim 
an’ myself received one each from you an’ Ailey, shortly after 
. we landed. W e were then stopping for a few days in a friend’s 
house. I showed your letter to Tim, an’ he showed Ailey’s to 
me. Perhaps the both of you did something similar. I am 
engaged with a farmer out in a very pleasant part of the coun- 
try, at twenty dollars a month, found in everything. That’s 
not bad, Mary, I’m thinking, especially for one who didn’t 
know much about the work out here ; but I have learned a 
good deal, an’ am now quite fit to beat the best of them. We 
have no hedges here, none of the singing birds, like as at 
home; no roads of any consequence, for, you see, they com- 
menced railways here before they commenced to make roads, 
an’ that leaves them very little necessity for the other kind of 
roads. The potatoes out here, at least some of them, are as 
6weet as our pears— that is, your pears, at home— but not half 


81 


The Lost Rosary. 

so nice-loolcing. The master is never called master, but just 
bosh (boss), an’ a very good bosh he is. He leaves a good deal 
to one’s own decency, an’ that’s just where he shows himself 
a wise man ; for, I do believe the servants do twice as much 
for him as they would do for old Dick, at home, who used to 
get himself carried out in his chair to watch the potato setters, 
when one of them daren’t lift his sleeve to wipe the wet off 
his face without a string of curses flung at him, poor thing. 
W ell, as 1 was saying, the servants all like the bosh very well, 
an’ the whole country is very beautiful. There’s the river 
Delaware, would do your heart good to see it ; an’ the Dela- 
ware hills, where one may shoot whatever they like without 
any one serving you with a summons to appear at the ’size 
court, for taking your share of God’s creatures, that run wild 
about an’ the very sight of them, giving you a good appetite for 
your dinner, if you haven’t got your dinner before you see 
them. Grapes grow outside in the open air here, and bosh 
has a whole lot of them growing that way. You just put up 
live or six sticks in a row, and nail thin ones across them, and 
the grapes run up them, before they become grapes, you know, 
just like kidney beans at home, an’ sweet peas, an’ I’m told 
they pay well. Turnips an’ other things are much like as in 
Magheramore. 

An’ now, dear Mary, as I said in my last, I was very sorry to 
hear of your father’s poor health, but hope in # God he is im- 
proved by this time. 

I often think of you, an’ wonder would you like the place. 
The sky is beautiful blue, an’ very clear, just like the clear blue 
eyes of a girl I used to know in your parts. 

It gets darker here far sooner than at home, and gets lighter 
in the morning all of a sudden, so that, in the evenings, there 
is very little time for a fellow to take a walk ; not as at home, 
where one could walk for a couple of hours, an’ the shades of 
night falling round you so gradually. 

I’m very glad you prize the Rosary as you do. I knew you 
would never use it without a prayer for one whose life is de- 
voted to you, just as if you were my wife already. Give my love 
to your father an’ mother, an’ to Ailey, an’ the neighbors, not 
forgetting blind Darby, the fiddler. Note the address, an’ 
write to me by return of post, when you have leisure. Ever 
your affectionate Bernard McAuley. 

P. S.— Tim is working away like a brick, an’ is carrying mor- 
tar. He’s like a gentleman on Sundays, I’m told, an’ has been 
promoted to be a collector at the chapel. The chapels are all 
quite big in New York. So Ailey need have no fears of her 
boy. A kiss, dear Mary, an’ a sweet good-night. 

Provisions just the same as at home, but fish is more plenti- 
ful, and eggs a trifle bigger. B. McA. 

Barney read his letter over repeatedly to satisfy him- 
self that he had omitted nothing of importance. 

“ I would have liked to, if I could,just have hinted at 
my expectations about herself; but I suppose she knows 

6 


82 


The Lost Rosary. 

them without writing about them,” soliloquized Barney. 
“ Dear only knows,” he continued, “ what may happen, 
after all. I may see her sooner nor I expect, an’ I may 
never see her at all.” 

And Barney fell into a train of thinking, the reverse 
of comfortable. Like most people, he was at times light- 
hearted when his mind pictured the future with happi- 
ness and success, and correspondingly down-hearted 
when he thought of the distance that separated him 
from the girl he loved. Everything was very strange 
about him, and so widely different from the same stato 
of things in Ireland. He did his utmost to reconcile 
himself to his new mode of life, and, if he had only 
known it, was succeeding admirably. But he did not 
know it, and believed his natural restlessness at times 
was a sign of incurable discontentment. The tone of 
Tim’s letter led him to think that his cousin was much 
better off, and in the fuller enjoyment of an easier mind. 
He oftentimes wished he were near to Tim, and some- 
times thought that New York was the best place, after 
all, for a stranger, especially a stranger from Ireland. 
One saw one’s own kind there, and did not feel half so 
lonely ; but then it was a good resolve, after all, to learn 
all about farming in America, when that was to be the 
work hereafter. 

Eight, Barney! There is wisdom in thy thoughts. 
Time will prove you right in the long run. He who 
comes to America, and has any knowledge of farming, 
should stick to that work devotedly. It may not have 
immediate attractions, but a few years will make the 
steadfast worker a landed proprietor, — and the day that 
sees the first spadeful of earth turned up on one’s own 
farm, is the proudest day of our lives. That is the hour 
when the sun of independence dawns kindly on the rude 
conqueror, and hails him as a Man ! 


The Lost Bosary. 


83 


CHAPTER XII. 

CHANGE OP A NAME AND ITS CONSEQUENCE — A SCENE 
IN WHICH MOLD HANLEY ACTS A PAET. 

“ I do not like you, Helen, love, 

I’d rather have my Nelly : 

A dirty action she’s above — 

Her name is Nelly Kelly. ” 

Jenny and Nelly Clarkson were not long in settling 
down in New York. Their mother had got speedily over 
her bereavement, and felt somewhat lighter-hearted in 
consequence. She had a few half-respectable acquain- 
tances, and through their influence her daughters got 
employment: one of them as saleswoman in a shoe 
store, and the other as overseer in a dry goods concern, 
where some fifty girls were employed at slop work. 
Jenny, who was situated in the shoe store, lived at a 
considerable distance from her sister, and seldom had 
any opportunity of seeing her. Their mother was com- 
fortably situated as housekeeper to a poor Baptist min- 
ister in New Jersey ; and divided her time between news- 
paper reading and attending to her employer’s personal 
wants and the care of his dwelling. She visited the 
church where his ministrations were held, and took es- 
pecial care to note down all the good things he said, so 
that she might pleasantly refer to them on Sunday after- 
noons, and show him how appreciative she was of his ef- 
forts at spiritual instruction. It was wonderful how she 
succeeded in feecoming a permanent fixture in the min- 


84 


The Lost Rosary. 

ister’s house. But, after all, there was a softness in the 
character of the Rev. Ebenezer Sookes which suited Mrs. 
Clarkson’s little stratagems very nicely. They were both 
about the same age, but the housekeeper appeared the 
younger, and took particular pains to maintain her su- 
premacy in that one particular. 

Nelly had on more than one occasion severely repri- 
manded some of the girls under her charge, for calling 
her by her name. She wished to inform them, once for 
all, “ that her name was Miss Clarkson — her Christian 
name being Helen.” 

It so happened that one of the girls who came out in 
the same ship with Nelly — that is, with Miss Helen Clark- 
son — was also named Nelly ; and the lady overseer, when- 
ever she heard that girl called by her Christian name, was 
often in the habit of turning round, as if she herself 
were called or spoken to ; and that, of course, was very 
annoying, and necessitated some change. Besides all 
this, the Rev. Ebenezer Sookes used to visit the estab- 
lishment presided over by Helen Clarkson, and that 
young lady soon found out that “ Nelly ” was not half so 
respectable as “ Helen.” 

Nelly Noonan was, somehow, an object of hatred to 
Miss Helen Clarkson, and if she could have got rid of 
her, would have considered her tranquillity very much 
enhanced thereby. 

Poor little Nelly was a good girl, and very attentive to 
her work, and very regular; and, indeed, was neither 
half so bold nor so forward as the other girls. She was 
also very beautiful, and was much liked and respected 
by her shopmates and by her employers. She did not 
know, however, that she had been guilty of three grave 
crimes: she was called Nelly; she came out to America 
in the same ship that carried Miss Clarkson; and she 
lived under the roof with those horrid creatures, Moll 
Hanley and Mrs. McGlone. 


85 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ What a fine large family you have under your charge,” 
said the Rev. Ebenezer Sookes to Miss Clarkson, one day, 
when that gentleman visited the lady at her place of 
business. 

“Yes, sir; pretty large, and pretty good upon the 
whole,” replied Helen. 

The girls, hearing the sound of a gentleman’s voice, 
raised their heads simultaneously, and, seeing the visit- 
itor, commenced to giggle. The overseer looked daggers 
at this manifestation of disrespect, after the compliment 
she had just paid the girls. The Rev. gentleman also 
felt a little annoyed, but managed to walk up and down 
among the workers, pretending not to notice the youth- 
ful improprieties which now beset him on all sides. 

“ He’s come a-courting Hell,” said one of the young 
rebels. 

“Ho, he ain’t; she goes a-courting of him, on pretence 
of seeing the old woman,” said another. 

“ Begor, his nose and his chin will soon make a pair 
of nut-crackers,” said a young Hibernian to a girl be- 
side her. 

“ Happy children ! ” mildly suggested the Rev. Ebenezer 
to Helen. “Should we join in any exercise?” he in- 
quired. 

“ I’m afraid not, sir,” replied the lady overseer. “ They 
are in one of their giddy moods to-day, I perceive,” she 
continued, “ although I was led into giving them a good 
character when you entered.” 

“ Oh, merely the thoughtlessness of youth ; and, then, 
their home-rearing, Miss Clarkson, is seldom better than 
it ought to be,” remarked the pious man, with the least 
sign of displeasure in the tone of his voice. 

“ Where’s your old woman, Sniggs ? ” was shouted out 
from among the girls, and a general chorus of laughter 
followed the query. 

Miss Clarkson could stand this thing no longer, and, 


86 


The Lost Rosary. 

dashing in among the flock, gave a ringing box in the 
ear to Nelly Noonan. 

The Rev. Ebenezer had made himself scarce, and, on 
looking at himself in a mirror, in a shop window, saw 
that an unnatural redness overspread his pale, mild face. 

“ Good for her that she did not strike me in that fash- 
ion,” said a girl, who saw the blow administered to little 
Nell. 

“ If she smited me, I’d be after returning her compli- 
ment,” said another ; but Helen Clarkson either did not 
hear, or did not heed the remarks then made. The girls 
seemed by their manner to know more about the Kev. 
Ebenezer Sookes than did their mistress. 

Next day, Moll Hanley accompanied little Nell to the 
work-place, and requested an interview with “Nelly 
Clarkson, the mistress.” 

That personage presented herself at the door, and 
pertly inquired the business of Moll. 

“ I just came over to learn, ma’am, whatever made 
you strike poor Nelly Noonan, yesterday? ” 

“ It’s none of your business to come here to make any 
such inquiry,” was the reply. 

“Och, in troth, an’ I’ll make it my business,” said Moll, 
advancing towards the speaker, who retired a few steps 
backward. 

“ She misbehaved herself in presence of a gentleman,” 
said Miss Clarkson. 

“ That ain’t true,” shouted half-a-dozen voices at the 
same time. 

“ There, now ; do you hear that ? ” triumphantly asked 
Moll, still advancing, and with a suspicious looseness 
about her arms. 

“ These girls are rude, and don’t speak truth,” vehe- 
mently exclaimed Miss Helen. 

“Not half as rude as you,” was shrieked in the over- 
seer’s ears. 


The Lost Rosary. 87 

“ She’s an impudent, naughty thing,” persisted Miss 
Helen. 

“ She is neither so impudent, nor so naughty, nor so 
ungrateful as the wretch that says so of her,” roared 
Moll. 

•‘Do you call me a wretch?” frantically exclaimed 
Helen Clarkson, now fairly roused, and betraying by her 
white visage the strength of the passions raging within 
her. 

“ What the divil else are ye ; wouldn’t I be callin’ ye 
out of your name if I called you anything else ? ” contin- 
ued Moll, whose face was of a color the very opposite of 
the lady she addressed. “ A wretch ye are, or ye would 
niver have left yer ould father to be attended on his dy- 
in’ bed wid the strangers,” persisted Moll, who paid the 
penalty of her outspoken nature by a well-directed blow 
on the nose from the gentle fingers of Miss Helen Clark- 
son. 

“ Take that, Nell, in return ! ” shouted Moll ; “ an’ that, 
too, for interest,” she cried, following up her first attack. 

The noise and disorder of the place, consequent on this 
interruption, caused one of the partners of the establish- 
ment to rush in to inquire the cause. The moment he 
saw Moll and- the overseer, he speedily comprehended 
how matters stood. Helen Clarkson endeavored to show 
that she was the abused person, and, so far as appear- 
ances went, they were decidedly in her favor. The blood 
was rushing from her nose, and Moll Hanley stood quiet- 
ly by, holding her apron up to her face. 

An investigation into the whole circumstances of the 
affray was entered into on the spot, and resulted in a 
severe reprimand to the overseer, for outstepping the 
limits of her duty by striking any girl in the place. 

“ An’ a good girl, too, an’ not ashamed to be called 
Nelly, either, not all as one.” 

“ That will do, my good woman,” said the gentleman, 


88 


The Lost Rosary. 

“while we will not permit anyone to be badly used here, 
neither shall we allow you nor any one else to enter this 
place to create disturbances.” 

“ Faith an’ when there’s no one badly used, there will 
be no call for the likes of me to interfere,” said Moll, 
with a very modest courtesy as she retired. When Moll 
Hanley reached home, she called for a drink of water. 
The excitement she had gone through continued after 
the cause had ceased. She had taken a liking to little 
Nelly Noonan, and would have gone through fire and 
water either to serve her or “stand up for the poor 
thing’s rights.” 

“ Musha, then, but it’s flurried ye are, Moll,” com- 
menced Mrs. McGlone ; “ where ha’ ye been, an’ what’s 
the cause of your nose bein’ swelled ? ” 

“ Faith, an’ its fightin’ I was, an’ ye would niver guess 
with who.” 

Moll then related the whole particulars of the siege 
she had passed through, neither adding to nor diminish- 
ing the facts of the case ; and when she had thoroughly 
relieved her mind to Mrs. McGlone, the latter laughed 
again and again, but poor Moll Hanley was bathed in 
tears. 

“ Troth, there’s nothin’ to be ashamed of in what ye 
did for the poor orphan child,” urged Mrs. McGlone. 
“ I’m sure your conscience would just tell ye as much” — 
and the good woman busied herself in preparing a cup 
of tea for herself and Moll, keeping up a running fire of 
remarks on the character and conduct of Nelly Clarkson, 
all the time; “ Dear be thanked, ye are not behouldin’ 
to her, the saucy blade ; or if ye were, I’m afraid yer lot 
wouldn’t be an aisy one, anyhow,” said the good woman, 
as she displayed her activity in arranging the tea-table. 


The Lost Rosary. 


89 


CHAPTER XIII. 

AILEY’s FIRST TRIALS — THE LOST EOSAEY AND MARY’S 
GEIEF. 

“ Mary and Sorrow are nearly the same, 

Sorrow is Mary in all but the name : 

Mary is Hope, in the hour of despair, 

Scattering gloom, the offspring of Care.” 

After the departure of Barney and Tim the affairs of 
life moved on quietly enough in Corny O’Donnell’s 
household. At the earnest solicitation of the members 
of his family, Ailey remained permanently with Mary, 
and contributed in no small degree, by her blithesome 
nature, to the happiness of her uncle, aunt and cousin. 
A good girl was Ailey. Her heart was often lonely and 
sad, but she kept her loneliness and sadness to herself. 
Any one she ever chose to lay open her mind to, was nat- 
urally her cousin Mary. Ailey ’s aunt (not the wife of 
Corny) had persecuted her on more than one occasion, 
and in many a subtle way, too, in behalf of a young gen- 
tleman who had fallen deeply in love with her niece. 
The latter had borne all this quietly enough, until one 
evening her aunt persisted in the exercise of her author- 
ity to an extent that became insufferable. Personal vio- 
lence had been used, but Ailey concealed that from the 
world. Her state of dependence, and her desire to keep 
from public service among strangers, were well known 
to her aunt, who used that knowledge too often to the 
girl’s disadvantage. Things of this sort were at the 
worst before Ailey had even seen, much less became ac- 


90 


The Lost Rosary. 

quainted with, Tim Heggarty, — so that her obstinacy to 
her aunt’s desires did not arise from any pre-engage- 
ment of her heart. The young man, in whose behalf the 
aunt had done so much, was called Morris. He was the 
youngest son of a land steward, and, as maybe supposed, 
had many opportunities of visiting Ailey’s residence. 
From the first hour of their acquaintance, Ailey treated 
him with indifference, especially in the absence of her 
aunt, who managed to leave the young people as much 
as possible by themselves in private. Ailey felt her maid- 
en modesty insulted by this conduct, and used every 
stratagem to defeat the intentions of her relative. She 
was never bold nor insulting in so doing, but rather ap- 
peared the defender of her aunt’s thoughtlessness, as she 
termed it. On one occasion, when thus deserted by one 
who should have sheltered her next her heart, rather than 
expose the virtuous maiden heedlessly to temptation, 
Ailey told the young man Morris to desist at once from 
visiting the place, otherwise she would make known to 
her friends a matter that she preferred keeping secret. 

The matter to which Ailey referred, was an indecent 
and dishonorable proposal made by Morris to the girl, on 
his last visit. She flashed a look of scornful disgust at 
her insulting visitor, and left him at once, never imagin- 
ing for a moment that the base fellow would venture to 
repeat his annoyance. He made one more visit, and one 
only,— and the chances are, poor Ailey would have been 
spared that repetition but for the presumption on the 
part of Morris, consequent on his position with the aunt. 
Ailey had never shown him any conduct even approach- 
ing to rudeness, until the spoiled puppy had degraded 
whatever character for manhood he possessed, and then 
he was made to understand the exact position he held 
towards Ailey O’Donnell. 

Disclosing her mind on these matters one day to Mary, 
she declared that she never knew the meaning of hatred 
till that moment of her life. 


91 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ I saw at once,” said Ailey, “ that my foolish aunt en- 
couraged Morris in the hope that he would assist her to 
a renewal of the lease of her place. When she first pro- 
posed that I should accept his addresses, I looked at her 
in astonishment; and asked her if she did not know that 
he, and all belonging to him, were Protestants. She half 
laughed at such an objection, and do you know what she 
told me, Mary ? ” 

“ How should I ? ” replied the other girl. 

“ That Clarkson and his wife were of different persua- 
sions before they were married.” 

“ I heard my mother say the same thing before,” added 
Mary ; “ and, by all accounts, the poor man never did 
well afterwards. For certain, I know that during the 
time Jenny and Nelly were at school in Derry, the mother 
tried hard to give them an appearance that ill became 
her means.” 

“ But when my aunt,” continued Ailey, “ pointed out 
the like of that for an example that I might follow, I 
did indeed, cousin dear, feel how lonely I was in the 
world,” and the tears ran down the cheeks of the speaker. 

“ One would have thought that if she had found you 
careless enough to give any encouragement to the 
advances of Morris, that she would have guarded you 
against such imprudence, by citing the example of the 
Clarksons as a warning,” said Mary. 

“ And that was, in substance, what I told her myself,” 
said Ailey. 

“ Tim, I suppose, never learned anything of this ? ” 
inquired Mary. 

“No.'” was the answer; “I thought that perhaps he 
did, but he never once alluded to anything of the kind ; 
and I know his good nature so well, that I am sure if he 
had heard of it he would have told me, or hinted at it 
in some way. There was this much I could see in Tim : 
he did not like my aunt, but he studiously refrained 
from telling me so.” 


92 


The Lost Rosary. 

Times were going hard with Corny O’Donnell. He 
had lost a portion of his land ; and, as he had made up 
his mind to a sort of certainty that he would get 
leave to retain it, the blow came on him with greater 
force. Then, again, the potato crop had shown symp- 
toms which he had never observed before. He had al- 
ready suffered considerable loss by that part of his farm- 
ing, and, although he endeavored to appear, to those 
around him, as indifferent as some of his neighbors, yet 
it was evident that he was brooding over these things 
in his mind, and his health gave evidence of a very con- 
siderable decline. 

Mary was the first to perceive these things, and she 
left nothing untried to raise her father’s mind from con- 
templating the result of what was happening. She was 
constant and ceaseless in those little attentions that, 
singly, are of no consequence, but which, when taken in 
the aggregate, amount to the greater part of the conso- 
lations in life. Ailey discovered this, and backed up the 
grateful conduct of Mary. She often used to laugh him 
into a sweet temper, and had the strangest possible ways 
of reaching the old man’s heart. She was a great little 
philosopher, was Ailey. Nearly every act of her life 
towards others had a meaning in it, which meant as plain 
as smiles and good looks could convey — “ What are all 
our troubles, when placed alongside the sufferings of 
others ? ” 

Corny was seated, one evening, in his usual corner, re- 
galing himself with his one solace — the pipe — when he 
made the inquiry of his wife, if she observed anything 
wrong with Mary and Ailey for the last few days. 

“ To be sure I have,” was the reply to Corny. “ They 
didn’t like, poor things, to say anything about it to you ; 
but Mary, the cratur, has lost a present she got, an’ 
they’re half wild about it ever since.” 

“What was it?” inquired Corny, with evident con- 


The Lost Rosary. 93 

cern ; “ I wasn’t aware the girl was gettin’ presents from 
any one.” 

“Well, it wasn’t very much of a value, I suppose — but 
it was of value to her, I know. It was a nice little Rosa- 
ry, given to her by Barney McAuley, before he went to 
Ameriky.” 

“ Och, is that all ? ” said the old man ; “ you may buy 
her one if you like ; one’s as good as another, I sup- 
pose.” 

“’Deed an’ I don’t think it, especially in this case, 
Corny,” said his wife. 

“Well, unless it’s because that — it — came — from — him, 
I suppose,” drawled forth Corny. 

“ That’s just where the value is,” said Biddy, warm- 
ly. “ Besides, every one knows there’s a good dale in the 
kind of the present, and a good dale, too, in the person 
it comes from, and the one who receives it, and the cir- 
cumstances of givin’ it, and that’s what makes the loss 
what Mary says of it.” 

“An’ what in the world does she say of it?” asked 
Corny, inwardly satisfied that every word his wife had 
uttered was true. 

“ Well, here’s the girls themselves, an’ you just ask 
them,” said his wife. 

Mary and Ailey had been in a fruitless search for the 
little treasure, and had just returned, Mary looking pale 
and careworn. 

“Your mother’s just after tellin’ me,” began Corny, 
“ that you lost somethin’ yesterday, or the day before, or 
Sunday last, or — lately, an’ that you’re uneasy about it.” 

“ Dear uncle,” said Ailey, drawing a seat beside him, 
“ it is only a little Rosary that Mary has lost, but I think 
she will likely find it.” 

“ Well, I’m sorry for it ; an’ only that she values it on 
account, I suppose, of the giver. Can’t she get another 
as good as it?” 


94 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ Yes, yes, uncle, of course; but there are many little 
things — at least, I suppose so — that would render that 
particular Rosary of great value to Maiy ; and I’m sure 
that none that you or any of us could purchase would 
have the same value in Mary’s eyes.” 

“Very likely, very likely,” said Corny O’Donnell, 

thoughtfully; “ an’ that just reminds me ” and Corny 

retired to his little room. 

“ Had yees no luck ? ” inquired Mrs. O’Donnell, “ since 
you went out ? ” 

“None, mother,” answered Mary. “How miserably 
stupid I must have been,” continued the poor girl, her 
voice trembling with emotion. “ I kept it locked up in 
my own drawer for over a fortnight after he left, and 
then I thought to myself I might carry it carefully 
enough in my pocket.” 

“Well, I’m sorry for it,” added the mother; “but as 
the ould sayin’ is, ‘ all’s not in danger that’s lost.’ Sure, 
we can all keep our eyes open, and who knows ? ” — she 
added. 

“All that’s in danger, may not be lost,” said Ailey, 
correcting her aunt, and in a cheerful voice. 

Yery little more was said on the matter. Mary was 
truly miserable. The Rosary given to her by Barney, be- 
longed originally to his mother. It had been a present 
from his father to her before their marriage. Attached 
to the beads was a small silver Cross, with the letter “ M ” 
on the back. Mary knew right well that there was not 
another living being to whom Barney would have given 
that same Rosary. The gift contained within itself a 
world of thoughts to the giver and the receiver. On the 
part of him who gave it, it meant that he parted with 
that which he treasured far above all else he possessed. 
It was a memento of the early days of his dead mother ; 
when her heart first awoke to the promptings of a holy 
and an abiding love. It was a proof of the faith and 


95 


The Lost Bosary. 

sincerity of him who gave it ; eloquently speaking of 
the bond of true religion that hound two fresh and hope- 
ful hearts. Again, it had been used for almost similar 
purposes; but, before its second use, it had been sancti- 
fied in the eyes of a faithful son. When Barney McAu- 
ley received it, there was no kind word to accompany 
the gift. It was the last piece of matter on earth of 
which his mother’s soul was conscious. Reverently he 
loosened it from her fingers in death. Her last kiss was 
yet warm on the Cross, from the lengthened pressure of 
that sacred emblem on her lips. No wonder if the 
son’s hand trembled as he deposited the relic in Mary’s 
hand. The single engraved letter had reference to his 
mother, whose name was Mary. It had also a singular 
significance in the eyes of her who received it, as her 
name also was Mary, — and especially as the devotions it 
was used for kept another holy name ever present in 
the mind of whoever made the circle of its beads. Bar- 
ney knew that it would serve as a kind remembrancer to 
the beloved recipient, to think of him, and to pray for 
him when far away. 


96 


The Lost Rosary. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE FAMINE PERIOD — DEATH OF CORNY O’DONNELL. 

“ O Christ ! Thy people died— 

Died of hunger, I am told ; 

And their voices to Thee cried— 

* Save the remnant of Thy fold.’ ” 

Mary, assisted by Ailey, and those few to whom she 
communicated her loss, made every effort to discover 
The Lost Rosary, but all was of no avail. Did Mary 
speedily forget her loss ? Ah, no ! She mourned for it, 
and prayed for its restoration most fervently. But she 
did not then discover the little treasure. Even her fa- 
ther felt more in the matter than he chose to make ap- 
pear. He was strongly of opinion that some one in the 
neighborhood had found it, and not knowing to whom it 
belonged, retained it 

Corny O’Donnell felt much for his daughter ; and al- 
though not regular in his attendance at Mass, even on 
Sundays, promised Mary he would keep a sharp look 
out in future, to try and assist her in the discovery, — for 
Corny was a changed man in his feelings toward Barney 
McAuley, although he kept that to himself as well as he 
could. 

And so Corny got into the habit of regularly attend- 
ing Mass nearly every morning, still hoping to comfort 
his daughter some day with a sight of the Rosary. He 
did not succeed in finding it ; but it was some consola- 
tion to Mary to know that he had found something else 
which she often prayed for when using the same little 
Rosary. 


97 


The Lost Bosary. 

The affairs of the world went badly with Corny O’- 
Donnell, and just in proportion as they failed him, his 
practice of looking for the Eosary increased. Bad times 
came again and again, until the full storm of the famine 
of ’46 and ’47 burst over the land, and left thousands 
upon thousands, who had never known want in their 
lives, exposed to the full fury of the desolation that 
swept over the warm hearths of the affrighted people. 

That was a period of much desolation and woe — a pe- 
riod, the distress of which appalled the stoutest, and 
made men’s hearts sore with witnessing what they could 
not relieve. Full-freighted ships, bearing foreign grain, 
were floating on the ocean, destined for Irish ports. But 
from these same Irish ports went forth home-grown 
grain in abundance — thousands upon thousands of heads 
of cattle and other live stock l Ireland was under a heavy 
visitation, for that country is under the rule of a for- 
eign power, and the visitation was made by England. It 
is not meant by this that the loss of the potato crop was 
the work of England ; but the effects of the famine arose 
more from mis-legislation, than from any work of nature. 
It is easy to advance proof of this, but such a proceed- 
ing would be out of place in a work of this kind. The 
subject is introduced here for the purpose of accounting 
for Corny’s “ heavy down-come in the world,” as he him- 
self termed it. 

Coming into his house one morning after a careful ex- 
amination of a large field of potatoes, he sat down in 
his accustomed seat. He was evidently excited and ill. 
Observing his condition, kind-hearted Biddy, his wife, 
endeavored to cheer him by pointing out the misfortunes 
of others — greater than those he had to suffer himself, 
and not so able, in point of worldly circumstances, to 
bear them. 

“ There’s that ten-acre field ; an’ I needn’t attempt to 
get a spade put into it. Three days ago it looked fresh 


98 The Lost .Bosary. 

and green, an’ to-day it’s as black as that crook there 
over the fire.” 

“ Well, welcome be the will o’ God,” fervently added 
his wife. 

“ Aye, aye ; I can say that now, too, but I couldn’t have 
said it twelve months ago.” 

“Yes, you could,” replied Biddy; “but you just think 
you couldn’t.” 

“ What’s to become of us, Bid ? ” he inquired. 

“ I feel it here badly, badly,” he said, passing his hand 
over his heart. 

“ Corny O’Donnell, it’s flyin’ in the face o’ God ye are, 
so it is, to be bringin’ bad health on yourself with your 
thoughts about the poor carcass of a body that you can’t 
keep an hour in life longer nor God wills it. Raise your 
spirits, man, an’ be above the like. I don’t deny but you 
might raisonably give some thoughts to what’s happen- 
in’ with yourself, an’ with many others around us, but 
to fly in the face of Providence the way you’re doin’, is 
a sin before the Almighty, so it is,” said Biddy, with a 
warmth that touched the old man keenly. 

“ What’s to become of us, Biddy ? ” he inquired, with a 
very dejected air; “ what’s to become of us, an’ that poor 
thing Ailey — must we send her away ? Mary will break 
her heart after her. Aye, what’s to become of us ? ” 

“ Corny O’Ponnell, I’m sorry to hear you,” replied his 
wife, who knew the strong passions working in her hus- 
band’s breast, and wished to counteract them ; “ sorry to 
hear you, indeed. Here we are, both old, with only one 
child to support, an’ we never knew want since the hour 
we were born, an’ now, at the first darkenin’ of the cloud, 
you dare to despair of that Power that kept you an’ 
yours well off in the world since the hour we came into 
it. One would think, man alive, that God had become 
less, or that he hadn’t the power to watch o’er us as for- 
merly, to see you take on so.” 


99 


The Lost Rosary. 

Corny was silent. A spasm liad passed over his heart. 
A strange feeling of pain such as he had never experi- 
enced before, rendered him almost as pale as death. It 
was with considerable difficulty he managed to retire to 
bed. His good wife helped him, and used every little . 
stratagem she could think of to lighten his mind. She 
was not far astray, in ascribing the change she observed 
in her husband to the terrible fatality that was bringing 
desolation to so many homes; still, there were other 
causes, of which both she and her husband were unaware, 
to account for Corny’s suffering. It was not altogether 
mental pain he endured, although that was, in all prob- 
ability, the original cause. 

When Mary and Ailey entered, they were terribly sur- 
prised at the change they witnessed. Without taking 
much time to consider what was best to be done, Ailey 
drew her cousin aside. 

“ I don’t know what to make of uncle’s changed ap- 
pearance,” she said ; “ but, in any case, it can do no harm 
to send for a doctor.” 

“ I would as soon Father James saw him, and at once,” 
replied Mary. “ ’Tis a long distance to go for a doctor,” 
she added, “ and Father James is known to be very skil- 
ful.” 

“ Both are best,” said Ailey, hurriedly, and accordingly 
messengers were at once dispatched for priest and doc- 
tor. 

In less than half an hour Father James arrived, and, 
hurrying into the apartment where Corny lay, saw at 
one glance, that the case was much more critical than he 
had expected. 

Those who were present retired, and, in about ten min- 
utes, the clergyman came forth, and inquired if there 
was any word of the doctor. 

There was none. 

Both Mary and Ailey ran distractedly out on the road, 


100 


The Lost Rosary. 

to see if there was any appearance of that gentleman. 
Neither spoke to the other, but each felt that a crisis 
was at hand, as they beheld the agitated appearance of 
the priest. 

Corny’s wife flung herself down on her knees by the 
bedside, and groaned aloud. It was pitiful to behold her 
grief. The suddenness of the blow was such, that she 
could not realize it. Only an hour or two ago, and she 
was bantering her poor husband ; and, although her mo- 
tives in doing so were of the purest nature, yet poor 
Biddy now blamed herself as being the cause, in some 
way, of what had happened. She mentioned these things 
to Father James, but the good priest told her to make 
her mind easy in regard to that. He was afraid, he 
maintained, that Corny was stricken down, either by par- 
alysis or some disease of the heart, and, as either of 
these came on very suddenly, she had no cause to attrib- 
ute anything of the kind to herself. 

Corny endeavored to make her understand by signs 
that he knew what was preying on her mind, and 
stretched forth his hand, with considerable effort, to- 
wards her. His wife grasped the hand, and affection- 
ately pressed it to her lips, and then to her heart. 

At that moment, Mary and Ailey rushed in with the 
word that they saw the doctor descending the hill. He 
was on horseback, aud coming along quickly. 

Both girls, seeing how matters stood, were soon upon 
their knees beside the mother. Corny had heard them en- 
ter, and opened his eyes to look towards the heart-broken 
girls. There was a sudden passage of pain across his 
face^ but it vanished quickly, and was superseded by a 
sweet smile. 

The doctor entered, and, after the first sight he got of 
the sick man, inquired if he had spoken lately ? The 
priest informed him that he had, and distinctly, too, till 
within a few minutes ago. 


101 


The Lost Eosary. 

“ I’m afraid,” said the doctor, “ he has spoken his last.” 

The wife, daughter, and niece, had caught the words, 
and burst into renewed grief. Corny opened his eyes 
and closed them, alternately, for the space of a quarter of 
an hour. It was evident, now, to all, that a great change 
was at hand. The doctor saw that nothing he could do 
would avail the sick man. Taking Father James aside, 
he told him there was a strong probability that another 
fit would take place before morning, and that would be 
the last ; if not, he would pass quietly away. He then 
retired. 

Father James knelt, and the suppressed breathing of 
those around the bed of the dying was all that was heard 
for some time. A low moan escaped the lips of poor 
Corny, his eyes closed tightly, and an ashy tear fell on 
the pale cheek. There was a quiver over the body, 
then another, of greater pain than the one previous. 
The priest was the only one who observed these, and he 
fully expected that the doctor’s predictions were about to 
be verified, even then. He was mistaken, however. All 
that he saw of Corny O’Donnell was the poor remains of 
mortality; the soul had fled to its Creator, ere those 
loving ones who surrounded the body were aware that 
Death had been present ! 

A minute or two passed away, and then, as the truth 
dawned on the minds of those friends, whose souls were 
holding converse with heaven in behalf of a departing soul, 
aloud piercing wail burst almost simultaneously from the 
three bereaved ones. Father James remained standing, 
and his heart was buried in grief, as well for those present 
as for poor Corny, whose nature he knew well. He did 
not even attempt to soothe the sorrow that welled up 
around him. He allowed it to find expression, as he 
well knew that by such means calm would sooner be re- 
stored to the bruised hearts of the friends. Then he 
knelt again, and quietly asked them to join him in a 
Rosary. 


102 


The Lost Rosary . 

Meantime, word had spread over the country that 
“ Corny O’Donnell had been struck down dead ! ” Some 
had it that the visitation of God was so sudden, that the 
poor man had not time to bless himself. Others maintain- 
ed that he had burst a blood-vessel, and had bled to death. 
Various were the numerous and highly exaggerated ac- 
counts, as generally happens, when anything pertaining 
to sickness or death takes place in country districts. 

The house of Corny rapidly filled -with people, and 
many and genuine were the expressions of sorrow 
made for the dead and the living — for Corny and his rela- 
tives. 

During the “ waking of the corpse,” the loss of Mary’s 
Eosary was incidentally mentioned among those of the 
neighbors present, and one old woman maintained that 
she saw a strange-looking lady walking behind Mary, 
one morning, as the latter proceeded from Chapel, and 
observed her stoop and pick up something, which the 
lady stood examining for a few minutes, and then trans- 
fered to her pocket. The bearer of this intelligence was a 
shrewd old person, who readily connected the act she 
had witnessed, on the part of the strange lady, with the 
loss which Mary O’Donnell had sustained. She men- 
tioned these things, but then arose the question who was 
the lady — where was she from — where going to — could 
she be found ? All these questions were duly proposed ; 
but as might naturally be expected, were left unanswered, 
and any hopes that Mary had entertained heretofore of 
recovering the Eosary were now banished from her 
mind. The lady must have been the person who found 
it, and, as no one knew her, there was not the least like- 
lihood of ever finding out her whereabouts. 

The funeral took place, and the remains of old Corny 
O’Donnell were consigned to their last resting-place 
in the Old Chapel Yard, there to a wait their final resur- 
rection. Corny had never known what it was to be well 


103 


The Lost Rosary. 

liked by his neighbors. Now, that he was gone, there 
was nothing but kind words spoken of him : He did no 
one any injury, and just had a way of his own, and 
“ God help us, who is there who hasn’t that same.” Such 
were the feelings entertained regarding him ; while on the 
other hand, kind, and, even affectionate, were the feel- 
ings entertained for those who were left behind. Warm- 
hearted Irish people ! It does not require the visit of 
Death to bring forth the kindly impulses of your nature ; 
but when that stern visitor does appear, soft and tender, 
as the sweet affections of a child, come forth those sterl- 
ing qualities of the heart that render your name a theme 
of gratitude for ever. 


104 


The Lost Bosary, 


CHAPTER XV. 

UNACCOUNTABLE BREAK-OFF IN AMERICAN CORRES- 
PONDENCE — HARD TIMES FOR SOME PEOPLE. 

“ From the cabins and the ditches, in their charr’d uncoffln’d 
masses, 

For the Angel of the Trumpet will know them as he passes ; 

A ghastly spectre army before great God we’ll stand, 

And arraign you as our murderers, the spoilers of our land.” 

Corny’s wife continued ill long after the demise of 
her husband. They had battled life together for over 
twenty years, — had their days of hardships and struggles, 
of ill-temper and repose. Many a difference had cloud- 
ed their lives, but there was generally sunshine after the 
storms ; and so they jogged along together, leaning closer 
toward each other as the years they had passed made 
their infirmities more visible. 

Times got worse with those whom Corny O’Donnell 
had left behind. Indeed, his wife and daughter were ill- 
suited to bear the burden which had fallen on them. 
To add to their sorrows, the correspondence with Amer- 
ica had ceased. This was, indeed, perplexing to the 
whole of them, especially as the letters they had received 
from both Barney McAuley and Tim Heggarty breathed 
the utmost affection, and were filled with a frank avowal 
of the love the young men entertained for Mary and Ailey. 
The latter in turn, although not altogether too plain in 
the avowal of their love, as might naturally be expected 
from girls in their position, towards the young men, 
were at least warm-hearted in their admiration of their 


105 


The Lost Rosary. 

correspondents, proud of their success in the New World, 
and anxious for their continued good health and pros- 
perity. In fact, the letters of the girls were all that could 
be expected, and those to whom they were written 
looked upon them as welcome visitors in the land of 
their exile, recalling many happy memories of pleasant 
days and bright hours spent at Home. 

Many and anxious were the inquiries made by Ailey to 
Mary, and by Mary to Ailey, concerning the falling off of 
the letters from America. They both agreed that some- 
thing must have happened. But what was that some- 
thing ? Therein was the whole mystery. If they could 
have discovered that something, how many weary 
thoughts would have been spared them; how many 
tortuous windings of thought ; looking at this side of the 
difficulty, and at that ; raising questions that could not 
be answered, and trying to account for impossibilities. 
Thus is it ever and always with those who, separated by 
great distances, have their hearts so knit together that 
time nor space cannot sunder. 

Probably if all things were known, Barney and Tim 
were just as much, nay, more annoyed and confused at 
the non-receipt of their usual letters, which, to them, were 
as precious as all they possessed. But they were men, 
and had not the tender hearts and minds of Ailey or Mary. 
They were rough, and could bear such things better. 

Ah ! how few are able to judge of these matters. A 
rough exterior is but the outward coat that conceals the 
finest feelings that ever played within a human breast. 
Men are too often misjudged. Outward appearances 
are not the safest guarantee to guide us in forming our 
judgment. They who use no other standard are sure to 
form a wrong estimate of that which they try to compre- 
hend, and so fail to perceive the noble traits that rough 
exteriors conceal. 

Wonder as they might, neither Ailey nor Mary ever 


106 


The Lost Rosary . 

managed to divine tlie cause of the silence they lament- 
ed, and while others would naturally have laid the blame 
on the absent ones, neither of these girls, even for one 
moment, ever dreamed of ascribing the silence of the 
young men to indifference toward those they left behind. 
What! No doubt that change of scenes would beget 
other, perhaps pleasanter, companions ? None. No anx- 
iety that changed circumstances would entail changed 
minds ? None. No fears that contact with others would 
create a desire to throw over the loves of a distant land ? 
None, whatever. 

Noble girls ! So much is true of you. No shadow of 
such things ever crossed your minds. Constancy and 
fidelity were with you the very essence of existence. 
Clear and bright as your own virgin purity was the faith 
that Barney and Tim were as true as yourselves, and as 
deserving of being so considered. That was the en- 
nobling thought that rose superior to every other, and 
that sufficed to still, at least in some measure, the anxie- 
ties that now beset you and caused you to feel so un- 
happy. 

So soon, too, after your late sufferings. But remember, 
that one trouble seldom comes alone. Life is made up 
of contrarieties, and the unevenness of its paths are the 
proofs that it is the road of life on which we travel. 

Mary O’Donnell felt keenly, indeed, the altered circum- 
stances of her life. Yet the true-hearted girl endeavored 
to rise superior to the difficulties that surrounded her. 
The poor mother drooped day after day, and seemed 
buried in her sorrows. She took a sad pleasure in brood- 
ing over them, and few words except those of lamenta- 
tion ever escaped her lips. 

At every appearance of renewed energy on the part 
of her faithful daughter, ably seconded by cousin Alley 
the old woman but felt her unhappiness increase. 

“Where’s the use, poor things, in yer tryin’ to work? ” 
she would say, half reproachfully. 


107 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ But it is our duty, mother, to try. Unless we try our 
very best, how can we hope to succeed?” would be 
Mary’s reply. 

“ God help yees ; God help yees ! ” she would mutter. 
“ The only bit o’ land taken from us when poor Corny — 
God rest his soul — was called away. What can we do ? 
what are we fit to do ? ” she would ask, while the rock- 
ing of her body to and fro indicated the want of hope 
that darkened her mind, and caused her to brood over 
her difficulties. 

“ What is it we can’t do, dear aunt, if we only have 
courage to try ? ” gently urged Ailey. “ I’m sure,” con- 
tinued the faithful-hearted girl, “ that one half of our 
miseries are created by ourselves, and the other half 
would vanish in presence of a stout heart and a firm 
will.” 

“ Oh, dear, to be sure,” said her aunt, “ youth is al- 
ways youth ; clear-sighted to see the fine weather break- 
in’ out o’ the black cloud. There was a time, Ailey, 
when your uncle and myself were as light-hearted as 
larks ; but he’s dead, an’ poor me, I’m left alone in the 
world, with a cowld corner to gaze at, an’ not knowin’ 
the day when we must lave the ould spot, an’ trust our- 
selves to the keepin’ o’ others as poor as we are, an’ that’s 
poor enough, ochone ! ” 

“ Indeed, I don’t think, dear mother,” said Mary, who 
had jiist entered, after performing an honest day’s work 
for a neighboring farmer, in the fields, “ that we have so 
much cause to complain, after all.” 

“ How can you say so, Mary ? ” indignantly inquired 
her mother. “ Look at your poor hands, an’ your face, 
an’ the whole o’ you, then hear how you talk,” and the 
broken- hearted mother covered her face with her hands, 
and gave vent to the feelings of sorrow crowding thick 
and fast upon her mind. 

“ A little fresh water and a towel will soon put that all 


108 


The Lost Rosary. 

right,” replied Mary, quite cheerfully, who, whatever her 
own feelings as to her changed condition in life, succeed- 
ed admirably in concealing them from her afflicted moth- 
er. “ A pretty sight we would be, indeed,” continued 
the faithful daughter, “ if we would sit down and mope 
at every little discomfort, instead of making use of the 
good health that God has given us to work for our liv- 
ing.” 

“ And then, the sin of it, too,” followed up Ailey : “ fly- 
ing ungratefully in the sight of heaven, instead of hum- 
bly accepting what is evidently intended for our good. 
Hey-day, indeed ! A fig for your poverty and trouble, as 
long as we have the health, and when we ourselves are 
guiltless of what has befallen us.” 

“ Is there no word from the Big House yet ? ” faintly 
inquired the old woman. 

“Not yet,” said Mary; “but I suppose we may just 
make up our minds for the same treatment the others 
are receiving.” 

On came the woes of that dreadful period. Darkly 
and thickly they fell, like blighting curses, sparing 
none, not even those whose comforts had never known 
the power of a rude hand, from their cradle days till 
their old age. The bright and happy harvest days were 
on the people, but the reapers’ song was hushed, and the 
dull workers in the field, from morn till eve, plodded out 
their lives in the hopeless task of saving their bits of 
land. Starvation first, and next toil, unceasing toil to 
meet the demands of landlord rent. True, some of the 
more humane of that class remitted a tithe of the peo- 
ple’s burdens, and did not press too heavily for immedi- 
ate settlements. But that was of small avail to those 
who saw the second and third years’ crops lay rotting in 
the earth, while the wheat and corn were harvested, not 
to be eaten, but for sale in the English markets, so that 
the ever-craving call of rent might be satisfied. 

Hard times, indeed l 


109 


The Lost Rosary. 

Ffcver followed, and the people rushed in streams into 
the larger towns, so that the sickening sight of the daily 
misery before their eyes might be diminished. 

’Twas a glorious Sunday morning. The sun shone 
forth with unusual brilliancy. Every hedge-row, and 
lane, and loaning, were sweet with the balm of Nature ; 
and the stricken hearts of the people felt the influence 
of .that morn. 

On their way home from the old Chapel, Mary and 
Ailey had learned from a friend that during the ensuing 
week they might expect the fatal missive, a u notice to 
quit.” That is a common death-knell in Ireland ; a more 
powerful slayer than Famine. 

“ What's best to be done ? ” inquired Ailey. 

“ There is nothing left us in the way of choice,” replied 
Mary, downcast and spiritless, in spite of all her efforts 
to the contrary. “ We must arrange at once to leave, for 
if my poor mother learns the truth she will go delir- 
ious.” Both girls were of the same mind on this point, 
and on their return Ailey informed her aunt that there 
was a strong probability of herself and Mary getting 
good employment in the town of B . The old wo- 

man was rejoiced to *liear the news, and wished to start 
just then. There was a dangerous-looking expression in 
her face and eyes that pained Mary and Ailey very much, 
but the poor things scarcely dared to speak their fears to 
each other. 

Next morning they started forth on their journey, trav- 
elling a part of the way on foot, then lessening the dis- 
tance on post-cars, until they reached the town where 
seats on the stage-coach might be secured that would 
take them the greater part of their journey. 


110 


The Lost Rosary. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

IN THE FEVER WARDS — A GLIMPSE OF THE LONG-LOST 

ROSARY. 

“ Down the broad valley, fast and far, 

The troubled army fled ; 

Up rose the glorious morning star, 

The ghostly host was dead.” 

Arrived at the end of their journey, our three forlorn 
travellers felt weak and ill. Biddy O’Donnell’s face, poor 
woman, was flushed and dry. Ailey, also, was in a sad 
plight, and her attempts to appear better than she really 
was were sickening to behold. The means at Mary’s dis- 
posal, as may be readily guessed, were not large; how- 
ever, she scarcely ever once thought, of that. Her mind 
was altogether occupied with her mother and cousin. 

To relieve her suspicions, Mary at once called in the 
aid of a doctor, who spent only a very few minutes in 
glancing at the old woman and at Ailey. “ Typhus ! ” he 
exclaimed, and hurriedly wrote out an order for admis- 
sion to the hospital, recommending their removal at once. 

Mary’s heart sank within her. She retired to a small 
apartment for a few minutes, and flinging herself on her 
knees, cried out in the perfect agony of her heart : “ Ac- 
cept this sacrifice, O God ! and thou, O Holy Mother, 
whose name I bear, obtain for me strength to bear this 

suffering, this terrible burden which ” and, overcome 

by the strength of her emotions, she remained in a semi- 
fainting fit, her poor heart lacerated with the tumult it 


Ill 


The Lost Rosary . 

was doomed to bear. Hurriedly preparing her patients, 
who were still able to move slowly along, she bent her 
way toward the hospital indicated by the doctor. With 
tottering steps she bore the weight of her mother on one 
side and her dear cousin on the other. Arrived at the 
hospital gates, a sight presented itself to her such as she 
had never witnessed, and could not have believed to ex- 
ist except in imagination. Stretched on the hard pave- 
ment of the street, on either side of the gate, lay some 
thirty poor creatures, some of them in an advanced stage 
of fever. The building was an old barrack converted into 
a hospital for the time being, and filled with beds hur- 
riedly prepared for the reception of the large numbers 
who sought admission. Some of those beds were erected 
in the open yard, under temporary sheds hastily thrown 
up to protect the sick from the heat of the sun. As Ma- 
ry surveyed the sick group, she felt that her own misery 
was eclipsed by what she saw. It was yet early in the 
morning, and many of those seeking admission had trav- 
elled all night. They lay gasping and moaning, burned 
with a scorching thirst, the one reclining on the other, 
packed and huddled together in a manner most pitiful 
to behold. Spreading an old cloak upon the ground, she 
assisted her mother and Ailey to rest thereon, and in- 
stantly girded herself to the task of assisting others. 

She looked wildly about her for a few minutes, and 
then dashed off to the first house she could reach. No 
one was yet astir. She knocked loudly at the door, and 
was asked her business. She craved for a pitcher of wa- 
ter, and was refused. 

“ Do rise and give me some water, for God’s sake ! ” she 
urged ; and a coarse-looking man appeared before her. 

‘ O speed, and God will bless you ! See,” said the girl, 
“ those poor beings lying over beyond there ; they are 
dying for a drink of cold water, and there is none to 
give them.” 


112 


The Lost Rosary . 

The man quickly supplied her, and Mary hastened on 
her work of mercy. 

Lowly she bent over them, and raised their weary 
heads while she assisted them to drink. Old men and 
old women, their gray hairs matted with heavy perspira- 
tion and dust, these she attended first. In a few min- 
utes she was off again for more water. Those she had 
already supplied, now craved for more. She supplied 
them again ; spoke words of comfort in their ears ; raised 
their drooping spirits, and rendered them every assist- 
ance it was in the power of one human being to per- 
form. 

Look on that weak, suffering girl ! ye who are lifted in- 
to high places by the means of sin. Look on her bend- 
ed form inhaling the breath of disease and death, ye 
loud-mouthed creatures of her sex, who disturb society 
by your ranting and canting about women’s rights. Cast 
your eyes, each haughty dame, from the glare of the 
ball-room, and behold in Mary O’Donnell the embodi- 
ment of a glory you can never possess. Divest your- 
selves of your pomp and your false splendor, ye lady in- 
triguers and scandal-mongers, whose tongues are blister- 
ed with defamation of your kind, and see if you are ca- 
pable of the heroism that shines in the every act of the 
friendless Irish girl. Look on lier, worldlings, and hear 
the blessings of youth and old age uttered in her regard, 
and say to your hearts, “ Am I as worthy as that devoted 
daughter?” The answer is known but to yourselves. 
Let it rest there, and fructify until the hard covering of 
your hearts be eaten away by the oft-repeated question, 
“ Am I as worthy as she ? ” 

And Mary O’Donnell is but a specimen of her class. 
Had Moll Hanley been beside her, she would have had a 
friend and helper, although the two had never exchanged 
a word before. Had little Nellie Noonan been at hand, 
we cannot doubt that the poor child-girl would nobly 
have aided Mary. # 


113 


The Lost Rosary. 

Brave Irisli girls ! it is seldom by such standards as 
these ye are judged. The hidden virtue passes lightly 
among those of the world. The sneer of the ignorant is 
reserved for some awkward act, and the gentle titter of 
senseless dandies are the estimates too often formed of 
our Irish girls. Self-abnegation is unknown by your 
betters — your betters, quotha ! 

Your chastity, sweet maidens, is the butt for the 
coarse and brutal joke. 

Your modesty sometimes wins upon the world; at 
other times it is valued below the vulgar display of ob- 
scenity and vice. 

Your honesty — Well, those who make money succeed 
in the world — “ but success at the cost of conscience ! ” 
whispers some Irish beauty at my elbow. 

Yes, my girl, success in the acquirement of anything 
at that expense, is, after all, a miserable failure. We may 
try to hide it from ourselves, but, if we ever possessed 
tl*at genuine article — a true conscience — we must at 
least acknowledge so much. 

Self-abnegation — better practise it, than bear the 
thought for one hour, that we have been remiss in our 
duty to our neighbor. 

Chastity — A flower that out-rivals all glories of earth, 
that commands the admiration of archangels, and blos- 
soms most when hidden. 

Modesty — Sweetest of virtues, that can well afford 
the taunts of the brazen-faced and worldly. Lovely vio- 
let that sheds sweet incense among the rankest weeds of 
life. 

Honesty — in principle and act, the guardian of soci- 
ety. The pride that flows from such is a noble pride, 
and well befits a queen. 

Success — a badly understood term, when applied to 
our condition in life ; always best when moderate and 

8 


114 


The Lost Rosary. 

unaccompanied with too strong a desire, lest its com- 
panions in virtue should suffer by its exaltation. 

Suffering — The lot of all, and not without its finer 
advantages. 

See poor Mary O’Donnell, now indeed an orphan ! She 
has stood by the grave of her mother, surrounded by 
strangers, without even one kindly heart to comprehend 
her sorrow. She hastens from the grave to the bedside 
of the sick. Ailey demands her care, and the heart of 
the poor girl is thankful that she has at last obtained 
leave to nurse her cousin through her sickness. Weary 
days passed on, and Ailey O’Donnell’s life hung trem- 
bling in the balance. Doubly watchful, now that her 
care devolved on only one, Mary sat at that post of duty, 
and carefully tended the sick one until all danger was 
past. 

Not even in those weary hours did Mary permit an 
opportunity to pass, whereby she might minister to the 
wants of others less cared for than Ailey. * 

One night, when sleep was overmastering the patient 
watcher, a moan of pain fell sadly on her ear. Gently 
she approached the sufferer, and, as she kindly bent over 
her — a young woman about Mary’s own age — she ob- 
served the hands convulsively clasped together, and 
raised from time to time to the parched lips to kiss some 
object which they held. 

A shriek escaped the lips of Mary, as she saw in the 
hands of the fever-stricken girl her long-lost Rosary ! 

A ward nurse entered, and, beholding what she be- 
lieved to be a struggle between Mary and the patient, 
ordered Mary to leave the place at once. The distract- 
ed girl endeavored to explain, but, in her effort, the 
nurse interpreted her words to cover an attempted act 
of theft 1 

Mary was violently ejected from the place; and now 
behold her standing outside the gate of the hospital, 


115 


The Lost Rosary. 

threatened, if she did not leave at once, to be handed over 
to the police, and cautioned to avoid returning there 
again. 

Poor Mary ! 

Severe shocks to the nervous system often bring on 
disease ; and sometimes, we are told, such shocks avert 
the same. Mary’s care of her cousin, and the trouble oc- 
casioned by her mother’s death, had rendered her weak 
and feeble. She seldom bestowed a thought upon her- 
self, and it never entered her mind that the infection of 
the disease which surrounded her might poison the cur- 
rent of her own life. 

Thus it is often the case, that those most exposed to 
disease are oftentimes proof against all contagion. 

At all events, Mary passed through her ordeal trium- 
phantly. 

During all her sufferings, her thoughts often wan- 
dered to Barney McAuley, and, especially since her harsh 
removal from attending on Ailey, his image was often 
before her ; and we need not wonder if, in her heart, she 
earnestly desired that he was beside her. 

Ailey was fast improving, and one day she received a 
letter from Mary, acquainting her with all that had trans- 
pired regarding the Rosary, and asking her to seek out 
the girl, and inform her of the proper ownership. Ailey 
was unfortunate in being of any assistance. The young 
woman had got better, and had left, and, a few days af- 
terwards, Ailey herself was fit to leave. 


116 


The Lost Rosary , 


CHAPTEE XVII. 

TROUBLES OF THE KEY. EBENEZER SOOKES — WHAT IT 
IS TO HAVE BUT ONE HOUSEKEEPER. 

“ He was a timid, gentle slave, 

Who often wished to he as brave 
As those of his sex he saw around, 

But bravery yet he never found.” 

The Eev. Ebenezer Sookes bad some trouble occasion- 
ally with the members of his congregation, and where is 
the pastor who has not had that same. Some averred 
that he did not pay sufficient attention to the “ waifs and 
straws ” to be found floating about in all directions in 
the great City of New York. There were those benight- 
ed things from Ireland — servants in places, and out of 
places — poor, ignorant creatures, sent across the Atlan- 
tic by the hand of Providence, who, in order to reach 
the hardened hearts of idolators, punishes and afflicts 
them for His wise ends. Others attached to that holy 
body, were of opinion that the new housekeeper occupied 
his time too much, and prevented the pastor from ful- 
filling his mission. Some were of opinion, that the good 
man’s visits to the establishment presided over by Miss 
Helen Clarkson were too frequent for the results ob- 
tained in the way of Biblical exercises. Even things 
like these came to the ears of the ladies of that over- 
watchful congregation. Others held to the belief that, 
after all, the Rev. Ebenezer did not believe in his own 
advocacy of woman’s rights; that he felt as if he had 


The Lost Rosary. 117 

gone too far in that respect, and required to cool down a 
little. 

“ I certainly have heard it said, that he informed Miss 
Longbow that we were quite too far advanced in our opin- 
ions,” said a lady member of the congregation to anoth- 
er lady member of said body. 

“ Strange creature ! ” added the latter lady, “ what can 
he mean by being too far advanced in our opinions, I 
should like to know ? ” 

“ I am sure I cannot divine his meaning,” said the first 
speaker. “ What are we seeking for ? ” 

“ Yes, what are we seeking for?” echoed her compan- 
ion. 

“ Nothing but equality; and, after all, to be only equal 
to the likes of him.” 

“ Yes, indeed, the likes of him ! ” 

“ And I’m quite certain the day ain’t far distant when 
we shall look for our proper equality.” 

“ Our proper equality is just the proper sentiment,” 
chimed in lady No. 2. 

“ If he were a high man, one could be satisfied with 
equality.” 

“ But he is far from being a high man ; not even as tall 
as ” 

“ You miscomprehend the inevitable meaning that I 
attach to the — to the — term high. I should say exalted, 
elevated, raised, excelsior-like, morally, mentally, — not 
physically.” 

“ Of course, my dear ; that is just my meaning, also.” 

“ And then he insinuates that we should not be carried 
away by popular enthusiasm, and forget which ballot- 
box to use when we obtain the franchise.” 

“ How very weak-minded, indeed. Perhaps he thinks 
we are all as near-sighted as he is himself.” 

“ And he keeps saying that women are just fitted to 
minister to household duties, and that they should never 


118 


The Lost Rosary. 

aspire to things not given them to know ; and that we 
mistake our mission whenever we speak of our claims, 
and should rest satisfied to he no better than the poor 
drudges of females who lived for thousands of years be- 
fore us ; forgetting that this is the age of progress and 
steam power ; and is not the least afraid to insinuate that 
it is only noisy brawlers who take on as we do ; and that 
— that we would be acting a decenter, better part, and 
one more becoming our sex and age, if we refrained 
from our glorious agitation” — and the speaker sank back 
into an arm-chair, fairly exhausted, physically, and men- 
tally tortured at the obliquity of her pastor’s perception 
in making such terrible charges. 

The companion lady ran to the last speaker’s assist- 
ance, and, by fanning her, and applying a goodly quantity 
of eau-de-cologne, eventually restored the eloquent “blue 
stocking ” to her usual equilibrium. 

It is, perhaps, unnecessary to state that the poor Rev. 
Ebenezer never was guilty of one iota of the charges so 
impertinently laid against him. The fact was, the great- 
er part of his congregation consisted of aged spinsters, 
who managed to make their pliable pastor much more 
like a good-natured sheep, than one used to taking charge 
of a numerous flock of lambs. He was everything they 
wished him to be, and, strange to relate, he failed to 
please. One great failing the poor man had, which was 
much in his disfavor — he kept a housekeeper! Alas, 
poor Sookes ! Had he kept two or three dozen, the 
chances are he would have stood higher in the favor of 
the spinsters. But there was not enough of Brigham 
Young about him, and so he had no defenders. Was the 
Reverend Ebenezer aware of the world’s opinion of men in 
his position; or, if aware, did he care to conciliate that 
opinion and render it subservient to his own interests? 
We are afraid that the good man Sookes knew very little 
of the world, over and beyond his intercourse with the 


119 


The Lost Rosary. 

members of his congregation. He was a Methodist, a 
Revivalist, a Baptist, an advocate of woman’s rights, an 
earnest worker in the field of missionary labor, provided 
said field consisted in gliding here and there to nice little 
evening parties, shaking hands — or, more properly speak- 
ing, finger tips — with ladies whose age forbade the cus- 
tom of whole-hand shaking. In such gentle exercises, 
the Reverend Sookes was a missionary of the highest or- 
der. Mild tea-drinking, a little sherry, claret occasion- 
ally, and other helps of a spirituous kind, did go 
some length in elevating whatever there was of man- 
hood in his composition to thoughts of heroic work and 
conversion of sinners. Perhaps he couldn’t help it, but 
the sublime desires that filled his bosom to overflowing, 
when under the influence of eyes made bewitchingly ra- 
diant by the same good things that fired his inner man, 
generally failed him in proportion as the ruby of the 
glass descended. This special weakness was often the 
cause of some hard hits at the character of Ebenezer ; 
but as he seldom felt the hits, he did not suffer much in 
consequence. 

One evening, just as he had taken his seat in his par- 
lor, with his feet newly transferred to a pair of warm 
slippers, and the tea-table arranged for himself and Mrs. 
Clarkson, who had patiently awaited his home-coming, 
the Reverend Ebenezer gave a glance at a little corner 
cupboard and heaved a sigh, which his housekeeper in- 
terpreted to mean “ an evening appetizer.” 

Gently laying her hand upon his shoulder, she asked, 
in a tone of voice that would have defied half the world 
to know that she had ever been a farmer’s wife, “ Would 
he have it strong or mild ? ” 

“Neither too strong, nor too mild,” was the answer, 
given in a tone of unction that would have melted the 
heart of a savage, it was so tender, so sweet, so plaintive, 
so melodious, so mellifluous, and combining within it- 


120 


The Lost Rosary. 

self such exquisite softness, that its charms reached the 
heart of the speaker himself, who wished there had been 
a score or two of appreciative Clarksons present to be 
bewitched by the one effort he had made. 

“ That voice ! ” said Mrs. Clarkson, as she proceeded to 
fulfil the pleasant duties imposed upon her by her po- 
sition. 

The aroma of Cogniac now blended beautifully with 
that of the Oolong, and produced a fragrance most grate- 
ful to the elderly nerves of Sookes and his servant. Be- 
hold this worthy pair comfortably seated at the table ; 
Sookes with his chair drawn lovingly towards Mrs. Clark- 
son’s crinoline. 

“ Do you know, Mrs. Clarkson,” softly repeated Sookes? 
“ that I have had it in serious contemplation to propose 
a momentous question to you ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered the housekeeper; and, as a vision of 
future happiness arose before her mental vision, a sudden 
knock came to the door, instantly dispelling the rose-col- 
ored imagination of Mrs. Clarkson’s mind. Quickly ris- 
ing to attend to the duties of her calling, a hardened 
frown overspread her previously composed features. 
“ What the divil brings you here at this time ? ” were the 
first words addressed to the visitor on entering, who 
happened to be the speaker’s eldest daughter, Miss 
Helen. 

“ Don’t be displeased, dear mother. I just thought you 
would be alone,” replied the girl, hastening into the par- 
lor, and giving the gentlest shriek imaginable as she be- 
held the Bev. Ebenezer Sookes. 

“ My heart rejoiceth at this unexpected visit,” gallantly 
exclaimed Ebenezer, rising and cordially inviting Miss 
Helen to be seated. The mother had found it necessary 
to be a minute or so behind, in order to smooth down her 
ruffled feathers. Presently she entered, and found the 
seat she had just vacated now occupied by her daughter. 


121 


The Lost Rosary. 

“Really, really, I am charmed with Miss Clarkson’s 
healthful appearance,” said the Rev. Ebenezer to his 
housekeeper. “What a fine girl you must have been, 
Mrs. Clarkson, when you were about ” 

Another rap at the door caused the gentleman to pull 
up, before the doubtful compliment he was about to pay 
the elder lady had finally escaped his lips. 

“Oh, it’s only our Jenny,” exclaimed Miss Helen. 
“ She promised me the other night to call over about this 
time, to see mother.” Mother’s temper was in a delight- 
ful mood. She smirked her sweetest smirks, and endeav- 
ored to be so very, very glad at seeing her dear daughters. 

“An’ how do you like your place, Nelly? ” artlessly in- 
quired her sister. 

“ Learn to know your sister’s proper name, before you 
make any inquiries,” said the mother, rather severely. 

Jenny Clarkson looked very confused, and began won- 
dering if her sister had changed her name. 

“ You must know, Jenny,” remonstrated the Rev. gen- 
tleman, “ that Helen is much more befitting the honor, 
dignity and character of your sister, than the vulgar 
name of Nelly. Only think of the ridiculous aspect of 
the great Trojan war, my dear, if the cause had been a 
common Nelly.” 

“ Yes ; only think of that war,” chimed in Mrs. Clark- 
son. 

“ Well, if she’s to be ‘ Helen’ I may as well be ‘Jane,’ ” 
quickly retorted the younger daughter, with as much 
acidity in the tone of her voice as indicated her displeas- 
ure at mother, sister, and Ebenezer included. 

“ However, it’s not about names I came here, but to 
see if we can’t arrange to live together, and not be sepa- 
rated as we are at present,” said J enny. 

The clergyman opened his mouth, but Jenny quickly 
informed him that she did not think of including him in 
the arrangement. 


122 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ You had better go home, an’ mind your business,” 
said her mother, very sharply. 

“ I have no home to go to,” answered the girl, with a 
sad tone in her voice. 

“ Then go to your lodgings,” sneered Miss Helen. 

The clergyman, finding that his happy evening was 
thus rudely broken in upon, told Mrs. Clarkson that he 
would retire for a little, as her daughters would very 
likely have private matters to speak about to her, and 
which another person should not be witness to. 

In order to reach a private room, the Reverend Eben- 
ezer Sookes had to pass the hall door, and while in the 
act of so doing, a third knock, sharp and thin, was heard, 
which caused a sensation of pain in the region of Eben- 
ezer’s stomach. Mrs. Clarkson was by his side in a mo- 
ment, but the gentleman told her he would attend to the 
summons himself, and that she might remain with her 
dear girls. 


The Lost Rosary. 


123 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A SCENE IN A HOUSE WHERE A SCENE SHOULDN’T BE— 
MRS. M’GLONE’S EXPERIENCES. 

“ ’Twas quite a row, I do declare— 

Tlie ladies tore each other’s hair, 

And shrieked and fainted right away, 

At what they heard each other say.” 

Ebenezer Sookes was a man of nervous temperament, 
a disability which he naturally ascribed to his female sur- 
roundings. For a long time he had debated with him- 
self whether he should have that useful appendage — a 
bell-pull attached to the outer door of his dwelling. He 
was afraid of his nerves, but late experiences had taught 
him that the use of hard skinny knuckles, when applied 
to the door, was nearly as bad upon his delicate tympan- 
um as the startling sound of a bell. He had nearly set- 
tled the point, so long debated with himself, as he opened 
the door to the command of the last knuckles, and, to 
his astonishment, another lady made her appearance. 

“ Good evening, Mr. Sookes,” said the new comer. 

“ Why, why, my dear, good Miss Longbow,” exclaimed 
Mr. Sookes, “ I am so glad to see you ; come in, come in ; 
this way, please ; ” and Mr. Sookes, miserable Mr. Sookes, 
most exquisitely miserable Mr. Sookes, led the way to 
his little private room. 

“ Your sister, Mr. Sookes ” 

“Yes,” said Ebenezer, suddenly afflicted with a shak- 
ing in the back of his legs. 


124 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ Called on me this evening,” continued Miss Longbow, 
“ and positively left instructions forbidding the holding 
of the next meeting of our Woman’s Eights Associa- 
tion ; and complaining, in the most biting, unwomanly 
sarcasm, of my conducting of the business of the Asso- 
ciation.” 

“ Monstrous ! ” said Mr. Sookes. 

“ Fact ! ” cried Miss Longbow ; “ and what’s worse, Mr. 
Sookes, she insinuates that I had ulterior designs — de- 
signs ” 

“ Yes, designs,” said Mr. Sookes, helping his lady vis- 
itor. 

“ On — on — yourself, dear Ebenezer ! ” and Miss Long- 
bow endeavored to fall into the Eev. Ebenezer’s arms. 

“ How stupid I am,” cried the gentleman, handing the 
lady to a seat. 

A slight noise, like a smothered cough, was heard at 
the door of the apartment, but no attention was paid to 
it, probably in consequence of the excited state of feel- 
ing of both parties. 

“ I shall proceed at once to my sister,” gasped Eben- 
ezer, like a drowning man catching at a straw to save 
himself. 

“ Not for the world 1 ” said Miss Longbow, grasping the 
arm of her companion ever so tightly, but imagining 
the act to be as gently performed as the touch of one 
rose leaf to another. “ She knew I came to speak to 
you, and promised to follow me immediately,” added the 
lady. 

Rir-r-r-r-rat-tat-tat-tat-a-tat-tat-a-tat-tat, came thun- 
dering at the door, as the last words of Miss Longbow 
died, like an inharmonious cadence, on the gentle ear of 
the nervous Ebenezer. 

“ Excuse me,” said Miss Longbow, “ I shall open the 
door ; ” and Helen Clarkson and Miss Longbow met vis- 
cirvis on the same errand. Both ladies retreated, leaving 


125 


The Lost Rosary. 

tlie door unopened. Then followed an application of 
knuckles on the door, that destroyed nerves and muscles 
alike in the body of Mr. Sookes. He flew to the door, 
just in time to come bump up against Mrs. Clarkson. 

“ Treacherous man ! ” whispered the housekeeper into 
the initiated ear of her master. 

Miss Sookes entered, and seeing no one but hdr broth- 
er at her service, concluded that he was alone, and that 
Miss Longbow had not yet made her appearance. Stand- 
ing there in all the fullness of her majesty, and scruti- 
nizing her trembling brother with the air of one accus- 
tomed to lead off in the grand debates of the Woman’s 
Rights Association, the lady exclaimed, “Treacherous 
man ! ” (she must have heard the words of Mrs. Clark- 
s6n, thought Ebenezer) “ to inform that old vixen, Long- 
bow, that- ” 

A scream, that might have awakened the dead, proceed- 
ed from the little room which contained Miss Longbow. 

Out rushed Mrs. Clarkson, followed by her two daugh- 
ters. Another shriek from Miss Sookes, and Miss Long- 
bow appeared on the scene. The little hall was filled. 
Five ladies and one gentleman, and that gentleman the 
Rev. Ebenezer Sookes, all in that small space ! 

“ A harem, a harem ! ” cried out Miss Sookes. “ Broth- 
er, explain ! ” 

“ Do, dear Ebenezer, explain,” whimpered Miss Long- 
bow. 

“ Dear Ebenezer, indeed P* said the housekeeper. “ What 
impudence ! ” 

“ That woman ! ” cried Miss Longbow, pointing to the 
housekeeper ; “ remove her, dear Ebenezer.” 

“ Dare to insinuate anything against my mother,” cried 
Helen Clarkson, approaching Miss Longbow, “ and I’ll 
teach you manners.” 

“ Brother,” shouted Miss Sookes, “ what doth this 
mean ? Who are these creatures, whose breath smells 


126 


The Lost Rosary. 

of— of— that which should be untasted in the house of 
the Eev. Ebenezer Sookes ? ” 

“ Jezebel, you called me a vixen,” roared out Miss Long- 
bow, addressing Miss Sookes. 

Another sharp rattle of knuckles on the hall door, and 
Ebenezer Sookes had a momentary temptation of com- 
mitting suicide. The door was quickly opened, and a po- 
liceman entered. Eougk man of law. He was speedily 
ordered to leave. What right had he to intrude upon the 
sanctity of a private house? Could not a few ladies 
meet in the house of their pastor without such intru- 
sion ? Yes, indeed ! And couldn’t a few ladies laugh in 
a friend’s house ? One would think there had been a — 
some occasion for such intrusion. Such were a few of 
the remarks made by the ladies to the policeman. 

“ Troth, an’ I’ll just tell ye, I did think there was a 
foight, an’ I’m not too certain, yet, but there was some- 
thing o’ that same,” coolly replied the policeman, as he 
withdrew. 

“ Impudent Irish boor ! ” said Miss Longbow. 

“ Yile Irish wretch,” echoed Miss Sookes, the Jezebel 
forgetting all about the vixen, and the vixen all about 
the Jezebel. 

“ And what are we all but Irish ? ” naively inquired 
poor Jenny Clarkson. 

“ Hould yer tongue, huzzy,” said her mother. 

“Ain’t this awful?” said Miss Sookes to Miss Long- 
bow, as these ladies departed, virtuously hating each 
other, but both agreeing as to the “ awful ” state of mat- 
ters in the Eev. Ebenezer’s house, the “ awful ” language 
of the policeman, the “ awful ” remark of that girl, and 
the “ awful ” rejoinder of that housekeeper. 

Jenny Clarkson had met Nelly Noonan the day after 
the scene between Helen and Moll Hanley, and, learning 
that the latter had taken the girl home to live with her, 
made up her mind to ask Mrs. McGlone for permission 


127 


The Lost Rosary . 

to occupy the room with Nelly. This she at once ob- 
tained, and J enny Clarkson was thankful for the change. 
Finding her situation in the shoe-store likely to be per- 
manent, J enny had gone to a boarding-house, and, for a 
few months, had lived a life of misery and temptation. 
She was surrounded on all sides by a set of female sharp- 
ers, whose conduct and language had terrified her into a 
train of thought unusual to her, and, for the first time 
since she had left Ireland, the full force of her lonely sit- 
uation burst upon her, and caused the poor thing to in- 
dulge reflections the opposite of those her previous gid- 
dy nature had imposed upon her. Finding her mother 
and elder sister treat her father’s death so lightly as they 
did, it is not to be wondered at that one of her tender 
years should have been rendered thoughtless by the ex- 
ample of those so near to her. Since her entry under 
the roof of Mrs. McGlone, and especially since her com- 
panionship with little Nelly Noonan, Jenny Clarkson be- 
came a changed girl. She had been to Church with Moll 
Hanley, quite regularly, too, for some time ; and latterly, 
the disposition of the girl tended to the desire of bring- 
ing her mother and sister to the same belief with her- 
self in regard to their living together. It was that which 
induced her to visit her mother ; and the sorrow she ex- 
perienced at the result of that visit, had well-nigh brok- 
en the poor thing’s heart ; and, but for the comforting 
assurances of Moll Hanley, “ that when one does their 
best in everything, they may rest satisfied, and leave the 
rest in the hands of God,” she would certainly have 
lost all hope. 

Jenny rehearsed to Moll Hanley and Mrs. McGlone 
the whole particulars of what she had learned during 
her visit at the house of the Eev. Ebenezer Sookes. 

“ The Lord be ’atween us an’ harm, but did you ever 
hear the like ? ” said Moll to Mrs. McGlone. 

“ Is it hear the like o’ that story ! ” said Mrs. McGlone ; 
“ goodness save you from the knowledge of worse.” 


128 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ I tell you what,” continued Moll Hanley, “ that house 
that Jenny Clarkson has left is a perfect ’monium of hell. 
How them two blackguards that keep that place ever ex- 
pect to enter the presence of God, is more nor I can ever 
imagine. A man calling himself a clergyman,” main- 
tained Moll Hanley — whose notions of American morality 
were necessarily imperfect, owing to her slight knowl- 
edge of the place — “ to have so many ‘ characters ’ about 
him !” 

“ That’s as common as dish-water,” urged Moll’s com- 
panion. “ The rale evil an’ injury to God’s craters here 
is them other vagabon’ women, who watch every corner 
of a street for poor greenhorn girls, who maybe only 
want to know the number of a door, an’ then decoy the 
friendless bein’s into some hole of a basement, where, if 
the victim isn’t beyond everything in stren’th of body an’ 
mind, a black curse falls on her in twenty-four hours af- 
ter she enters ! ” and the speaker kept wringing her 
hands, as if the thoughts then coursing through her mind 
were beyond endurance. 

“ But isn’t there law an’ justice for punishin’ the vil- 
lains ?” inquired Moll. 

“ Law an’ justice of a kind, to be sure there is,” an- 
swered Mrs. McGlone ; “ but do you forget, woman dear, 
the kin’ o’ place this same New York is, with its hun- 
dreds an’ thousands o’ people landin’ every other day, 
and the poor things, some o’ them, without a penny or a 
friend, God help them, an’ glad to take sarvice any- 
where ; an’ it’s right into the lion’s den they walk some- 
times, where they’re drugged an’ stupefied into insensi- 
bility, an’, after a while, become dead lost to every sense 
o’ shame. What is there left them but the streets ever 
after?— an’ it’s them that goes their len’ths when they 
do fall ; sure they’re worse nor common, an’ them tryin’ 
to drown the thought o’ what they were before. O keep 
us from ever knowin’ what they come through ! ” fervent- 
ly ejaculated the speaker. 


129 


The Lost Rosary. 

Moll Hanley was horrified, and appealed to Mrs. Mc- 
Glone if she hadn’t overstepped the limits of truth in her 
general portraiture of the pitfalls made for poor Irish 
girls. 

“ It’s as true as I’ve tould you, an’ worse nor anybody 
knows about,” added Mrs. McGlone. “ I’m spakin’, Moll 
Hanley, from the experience o’ the poor victims them- 
selves,” she continued, “an what can be truer than 
that?” 

Moll mournfully nodded assent. 

“ Don’t you mind ould McKeoun’s young daughter, 
Aggie ? ” inquired the plain-spoken Mrs. McGlone. 

“ The young fair-haired girl ? ” responded Moll. 

“ No ; that was her sister, who’s in heaven, I hope.” 

“ I know the one you mane — the youngest of the 
family.” 

“ Yes, that was Aggie. Well, that poor girl led a most 
miserable life after she came out here. She got into a 
dacent family, an’ was no time till she took up with ac- 
quaintances who led her a wild race.” 

“ So much for evil companions, as I told Jenny Clark- 
son the other day,” said Moll. 

“Just so. An’ if she had taken her mistress’ advice, 
it’s happy an’ dacent she would have been; but she 
didn’t, an’ the worst of all ruins happened her. At first 
she went out o’ nights ; then to them low dancin’ saloons 
— pits o’ hell, I calls them ; then she began to thieve, was 
put away from her dacent home, went as a bar-maid into 
a low den, an’ before ten weeks, that girl, come o’ dacent 
people, was a public strumpet on the streets — an’ all 
through gaddin’ about, an’ settin’ her heart on duds o’ 
finery. Och! God look on them that haven’t the firm 
hand to guide them. Sure we never can be thankful 
enough that so many escape the allurements of the 
devil.” 

“That’s true,” echoed Moll, mournfully, who soon 

9 


130 


The Lost Rosary. 

found out that her estimate of evil in the Rev. Ebenezer 
Sooke’s house was small in comparison to what she had 
just learned. 

Alas ! there was too much truth in the rehearsed expe- 
riences of Mrs. McGlone. Pitfalls for the innocent and 
unwary are too common, not only in New York, but in 
most of the large cities of America. Not more in pro- 
portion to other places, probably, but certainly more 
dangerous, in consequence of those most likely to be af- 
fected being utter strangers in such places, and recog- 
nizing in the voices of the tempters the patois of their 
own language. That, and the kindly offer of some friend- 
ly act — base art of hell’s agents — too often succeed in 
leading astray the wearied heart of youth. Let it not be 
imagined that those who thus trade upon the inex- 
perience of female emigrants, are themselves debased 
children of Erin. In some instances they may be ; in 
the majority of cases they are not; but their opportuni- 
ties for acquiring Irish habits of speech, and learning 
points of Irish character, are such as to enable them to 
successfully impose on artless people. 

The soft-spoken word, the proffered help, the kind in- 
quiry, touch the emigrant’s heart to the quick, and ex- 
poses him, or her, to the well-laid schemes of the land- 
sharks. 

There are those in New York City, who, by practice, 
have become such adepts in deception, that they are fit 
to recognize, by the sound of the emigrant’s voice, what 
particular county in Ireland he belongs to, and who use 
the same dialect, when addressing the new-comer, so 
successfully, as utterly to deceive the emigrant. Even 
this should not be sufficient to throw one off their guard ; 
but it often does, and great evils follow. 


The Lost Rosary. 


131 


CHAPTER XIX. 

MARY AND AILEY LAND IN AMERICA — THEIR FIRST 
EXPERIENCE. 

“ Behold them in the Promised Land, 

Where fairest flowers by zephyrs fanned 
Make sweet the air .” 

After Ailey O’Donnell’s return to good health, she 
and Mary found themselves poor indeed. The little 
funds they possessed were gone, and all their extra cloth- 
ing disposed of to meet their small requirements. Small 
requirements, indeed, for both girls managed to pass 
through that period of distress on an “ allowance ” that 
would, at least should, make many of their sex ashamed 
of themselves, — those of them, especially, who consider 
their chief duties of life to consist in spending money, 
and who seem incapable of any thought above their mis- 
erable self-love and vanity. 

Ailey was the first to find employment, and the poor 
girl’s joy at that same was unbounded. She wished to 
prove her devotion to Mary, as if that were necessary, 
for all the care bestowed upon her during her illness. 
Ailey’s employer happened to be a gentleman of excel- 
lent character, and when he heard the history of the two 
girls, told them if they had their minds made up on em- 
igrating, he would pay their passage money. 

Such good news nearly upset Ailey. She maintained 
she felt twice as strong ; and Mary, too, felt a thrill of 
new life come over her. Their hearts yearned toward 


132 


The Lost Rosary. 

America, for, was not Barney there, and Tim, too ? and, 
although no word had been heard from them lately, were 
not the chances in favor of something being learned 
concerning them when “ one’s on the ground,” as Ailey 
remarked. 

The great mass of the people, when thinking of Amer- 
ica, do so with very circumscribed ideas. They still keep 
thinking of their own parish, their own townland, or 
their own county ; forgetting, or, rather, not knowing 
that they might be in the same State with friends for a 
lifetime, and never know it ; nay, that they might hap- 
pen to be residents of the same city, and never see each 
other. 

Still, both Ailey and Mary believed that once in Amer- 
ica, they would not be long in discovering the where- 
abouts of Barney and Tim. 

Their wish is gratified ! Behold them standing on one 
of the New York piers. Ten weary weeks they passed 
on sea; scarcely daring to speak during that time, ex- 
cept to each other, and keeping together night and day 
for mutual protection. The ship they sailed in was a 
floating hell. Immorality stalked abroad in daylight, 
as well as at night-time, in that little world, contaminat- 
ing many innocent hearts, overshadowing some as with 
a pall, worse, a thousand times worse, than death in its 
most cruel form, and disgusting others with the loath- 
some conduct seen and practised among so many. The 
ship in which Mary and Ailey had taken their passage, 
sailed from Liverpool, taking a large number of those 
who had been kept behind for several weeks, in conse- 
quence of the vessel in which they intended to leave be- 
ing overcrowded. Some had been two weeks, others 
three, walking idly about in that city of dissipation, and 
having no friend to guide them, but, on the contrary, be- 
ing exposed to every wile and to every evil character, 
were in that short space of time initiated into evils and 


133 


The Lost Rosary. 

vices tlicy had never known before. Recklessness set in, 
and resulted in misconduct such as only a few weeks ago 
the guilty ones would have blushed at. True, their suf- 
ferings and misery were manifold and severe ; but those 
who break down at such hours of trial, are unworthy of 
the responsibility they take upon themselves ; and better 
would it have been for them if they had lived and died 
in poverty at home, than face those dangers they were 
not competent to withstand. 

One enemy faced them at every turn. Drink maddened 
them — cursed them, polluted them, and stopped not till 
their souls were plunged into the deepest abyss of sin ! 
Then drink, like an unyielding tyrant, kept them sur- 
rounded by the misery it had created, and the unfortu- 
nate beings thus circumstanced landed in the New 
World beggars, and ready for the commission of any- 
thing that would give them drink. That was their bap- 
tism of fire — fire that consumes all it touches — on en- 
tering their new life. 

The number of those who thus lost self-respect was 
comparatively small ; but only a few of the vicious class 
are required to contaminate many, when all classes are 
thrown together and mixed in disorder on board an 
emigrant ship. 

It is just to infer that neither Mary nor Ailey would 
have ventured into this social pest-house, could they have 
foreseen the misery they were compelled to endure. 
Their conduct was dignified, and commanded respect 
even from the vicious. At first, their ears were assailed 
with immodest remarks about themselves, but they heed- 
ed not what they heard, and never attempted a remon- 
strance or a reply. That was their safeguard, and they 
found it to be also their comforter. The attacks of im- 
modest tongues soon ceased, and the poor virtuous girls 
had comparative peace. It is worthy of remark, that 
Mary never alluded to these things even to her cousin, 


134 


The Lost Rosary. 

while Alley, the light-hearted, was equally as silent con- 
cerning them. They certainly gathered strength in each 
other’s company ; but it was the strength of grace, the 
strength that springs from rectitude that was their sup- 
port, and God knows they required all they possessed. 
To have spoken even in terms of condemnation of what 
they saw and heard, would, in some way, have defiled 
them — would have tarnished the innate beauty of their 
souls, which, after all, can, if we but try, remain as spot- 
less as polished gems even when our bodies are surround- 
ed by vice in its deadliest form. 

Matters connected with the emigrant ship are much 
changed now, because the emigrant ship scarcely exists ; 
and even where it does, the system of vigilance is much 
improved. Nevertheless, there are still dangers to be 
apprehended to the virtuous, even under the best regu- 
lations on board, but these are comparatively few. For 
the viciously inclined, opportunities are not wanting, 
but, on the whole, there is safety for the unprotected. 

It is essential at all times, that females, and especially 
those who are young and unused to mix with uncertain 
classes of people, should, if they wish to avoid bad con- 
sequences, conduct themselves as did Mary and Ailey 
O’Donnell. Silence is good, when to speak might in- 
duce irregular conversation, but, as a rule, cheerfulness 
and good nature, without forwardness or boldness, will 
carry the best through the ordeal of emigration, and be- 
get kindness and protection in return. 

With the tears trembling on her eyelids, Mary O’Don- 
nell gazed on the ship she had just left. That look 
spoke volumes. The long-heaved sigh bespoke a release 
from anguish of mind and suffering of body. 

“Just a penny, for God’s sake,” said an old crone, ad- 
dressing Ailey. 

The girl’s hand was instantly in her pocket, and the 
woman’s request was soon complied with. 


135 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ That box beside yee’s, will be your luggage, I’m think- 
in’,” continued the beggar-woman, while she pocketed 
the coin from “ the good ould country.” 

“ Yes,” answered Mary ; and then addressing Ailey, 
said , ( * This poor creature would likely be able to direct 
us to a decent place to go to, for a few days.” 

“ Is it a dacint place yer spakin’ of, sure then, it’s me- 
self that will direct yee’s ? ” said the old woman, at the 
same time calling a young man, and directing him to 
“ take up that trunk at wanst, and take the purty girls, 
God bless ’em, right away to Paddy Farren’s comfortable 
lodgin’-house.” 

The person spoken to did as directed, and, thanking 
the old woman, Mary and Ailey followed the carrier. 

They were soon installed in their new quarters, and 
received a good deal of extra attention from the keeper 
of the boarding-house. Toward nightfall, a fiddler 
“ dropped in then an acquaintance or two, young men 
and young women, who had all the appearance of not 
being over a couple of months in the country. Mary 
was quick to perceive that she had fallen into a trap. 
She communicated her fears to Ailey, who also felt dis- 
contented with the place. 

“ To remain here for to-night would make it more dif- 
ficult to leave in the morning,” urged Mary. 

“ That I agree to, at once,” said Ailey ; “ and we must 
seek a remedy without further waiting. Just you re- 
main in while I take a walk outside to cast my eyes 
about me.” 

Mary agreed, but not without some misgiving. It was 
necessary that one of them should remain to watch their 
baggage, and, after cautioning her cousin to note well 
the direction she would take, Ailey departed on her first 
little mission of business in the New World. She moved 
quickly about, knowing that to stand anxiously looking 
round her would be sure to attract attention. It was 


136 


The Lost Rosary. 

not a great business, after all, that Ailey engaged in, yet 
she prayed most fervently. Her loneliness of heart led 
her to ask for help and guidance. Sneer at it, worldlings I 
That poor girl did pray earnestly, and besought God to 
guide her steps. And she succeeded. 

In less than an hour, Ailey returned in company with 
two tolerably strong women, and Mary’s heart got “ as 
light as a feather.” The girls had been but a short time, 
indeed, in their new quarters ; yet they were charged for 
that short time at a rate that few hotels would venture 
upon asking. But poor-looking people are seldom wel- 
comed to hotels, and seldom care about patronizing even 
second-class places of the kind. 

Shall we dare to write it again ? 

Mary O’Donnell, too, had prayed that Ailey would suc- 
ceed in finding some place “ where they might rest them- 
selves after their weary voyage.” 

“ Just take that side o’ the trunk,” said the stouter 
of the women, addressing her companion, “ an’ follow 
us,” she added, nodding to Mary and Ailey. 

The girls did so with a sense of relief. The stout 
woman was no other than our friend, Moll Hanley, and 
her companion was Mrs. McGlone. 

In a short time Mary and Ailey were seated comforta- 
bly in company with their new friends, and rehearsing 
not a few incidents of the voyage now happily termin- 
ated. 

“ Oh, then, glory be to God ! But ye had the narrow 
escape from that den o’ thieves,” said Moll Hanley, affec- 
tionately addressing the girls. “But what in all the 
world tempted you to put a foot into sich a place ? ” • 

Ailey recounted their interview with the old woman 
after they had landed. 

“ Oh, the ould, ensnarin’ divil ! how can she expect to 
get to heaven after all the evil she does be doin’ ? ” said 
Moll, as she clasped her hands and raised her eyes. 


137 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ Then, God knows, you both had an escape ! ” said Mrs. 
MeGlone, whose heart beat kindly towards Mary and 
Ailey. “ That house o’ Farren’s is one o’ the worst in the 
whole City of New York. The lowest, vilest class o’ 
characters attend it. They ensnare young men, as well 
as young women, into every vice, and that, too, before 
they’re very long on American soil.” 

“ The place can’t be good,” said Mary ; “ and I saw it 
would never do to spend our first night within its walls.” 

“ An’ now may I ask you,” said Moll, looking towards 
Ailey, “ how you thought of cornin’ in here ? But sure 
it must have been chance, just, that directed you.” 

“Not altogether chance,” replied Ailey. “I passed 
your door, I’m sure, half a dozen times before I entered. 
I observed there were no men lounging about, and, as I 
peered into the window, I saw a picture of the Virgin 
hanging on the wall ; and the wall itself was the whitest 
I had seen ; and there was an air about the place that 
won upon me, and, in fact, I was just smart enough to 
see that the place was suitable.” 

Now Ailey gave her reasons very pertly, and very 
correctly, for one who was destined for some time to bear 
the ridiculous name of “ greenhorn.” She believed she 
had made a good selection of a place, and wished, if it 
turned out as deserving as it appeared, to notice what 
caught her eye, so that the two women in charge of it, 
knowing what a stranger thought of its appearance, 
might take the hint and improve on what they heard. 


138 


The Lost Rosary \ 


CHAPTER XX. 

A SAD PICTURE — WHAT MARY AND ALLEY ESCAPED. 

“ ’Twas a place of sin and crime, 

Where deeds were done that never will he known 
Till the earth dissolves, and nothing leaves 
To hide their great deformity.” 

“ An’ what’s come o’ the two young ones I sent you ? ” 
inquired the beggar-woman, as she entered Paddy Far- 
ren’s, and failed to recognize the whereabouts of Ailey 
and Mary, whom she believed were safely in the clutches 
of her employer. 

“ How do I know ? ” said the owner of the house, in a 
tone of displeasure, and with a gruffness and coarseness 
of manner that was most repelling. 

“Ye let them slip nicely, I’m thinkin’, after me watch- 
in’ them afore their foot touched the ground.” 

“ Hould yer prate, and be d d to you. They weren’t 

half as green as ye took them to be,” was the ill-natured 
reply. 

“ An’ couldn’t ye have made them green enough, Paddy, 
had ye been so mindin’, an’ not have deprived me o’ 
the chance o’ one o’ them, at laste, as a waitin’ maid in 
the place, ye know? ” urged the woman, with a sense of 
her disappointment, and in a callous and hardened man- 
ner, that was enough to thrill the blood of any one who 
knew her meaning. 

“ Aye, like enough, ye wud have had a chance o’ your 
tin dollars, ye divil’s chick, if ye had got your hands on 
them.” 


139 


The Lost Rosary. 

t( Divil’s chick, here or there, I worked for ye, an’ ye 
lost the game ; but, I suppose ye thought their swag too 
light, or ye would have managed to have kept them for 
wun night itself,” urged this female touter, whose tem- 
per was nothing improved at being deprived of the op- 
portunity of trying her hand on the unwary girls thus 
mercifully rescued from her clutches. 

“ Git out o’ that, an’ go to the divil, ye harmagan, or, 

by the holy , I’ll sind yer rotten carcass into a dozen 

pieces ! ” said Farren, roused by the taunts of the woman. 

“ Pay me, thin, every fardin’ o’ what ye owe me, an’ it’s 
transferrin’ me sarvices I’ll be to wan that’ll give an ould 
crater like me a.chance o’ earnin’ a dollar extra, when I 
bring him in a pair o’ as purty girls, fresh and bloomin’, 
as iver crossed a threshold.” 

This threat, although a thing of very common occur- 
rence among touters and their employers, contained 
within it a sting that mortified Farren, and, without an- 
other word, he caught the old woman by the throat, and 
flung her heavily on the floor. The* place was half-filled 
with a miscellaneous company, and not one of those 
present ever thought of the slightest interference. There 
was a party of four or five dissipated loafers engaged at 
a card-table, and, turning an innocent amusement into a 
gambling practice, were cursing each other’s souls to 
perdition with a heartiness of profanity that was perfect- 
ly appalling. Here, another batch of a like number were 
drinking, and recounting their experiences of the day. 
Such occurrences as a blow and a fall were common in 
those places ; and, as it was expected that every keeper 
of a like house, if not licensed to sell drink, was licensed 
to prove his brutal nature in whatever manner suited 
his temper,, the altercation between Farren and the old 
woman caused no more stir than if it had not hap- 
pened. 

The victim of Farren’s outrage lay stunned and stupid ; 


140 


The Lost Rosary. 

and believing her to be acting a part, as usual under 
similar circumstances, he approached her, and, with an 
oath that is better not repeated, kicked her with his 
heavy boot. The woman groaned, and blood came from 
her lips. Farren went out, and in a few minutes return- 
ed with a policeman. He desired him to remove “ the 
ould baste out o’ that,” and, as a preparatory aid, half 
filled a tumbler with whiskey, and handed it to the con- 
servator of the peace, who drank it off at a gulp. The 
poor wretch was roughly huddled out of doors, and Far- 
ren, after repeating the whiskey trick’ to quiet his con- 
science and soothe his nerves, took his place at the card 
table, with the remark that “ it wasn’t fair to sit there all 
night without some benefit to the house.” 

“ Give us half-a-pint, then, to begin with,” said one of 
the party, who, being the largest winner, was expected 
to “ stand treat for all hands,” for it was one of the un- 
derstood rules of that establishment “ to keep the up- 
standin’ of the house ” before the eyes of all and sun- 
dry who visited there; which, in other words, meant 
that willing, or unwilling, the poor dupes whose calling 
was in every sense a crime, must drink the poison vend- 
ed by Farren, under the name of whiskey — and heaven 
only knows the number and nature of the crimes 
which owe their inception and commission to the 
“ drink” disposed of by the class of which Farren is the 
type. 

During the night, parties entered and left that house 
of infamy at pleasure. Prostitutes came there, in com- 
pany with men of their own class ; at other times they 
might have been seen inveigling and enticing youths of 
tender years, under the disguise of recommending them 
to a place of safety and comfort for the night. Few 
who entered as strangers came forth without loss of vir- 
tue ; others were robbed directly, or made to spend their 
money freely, which they often did in order to make 


141 


The Lost Rosary . 

friends with the rough-looking cut-throats who fre- 
quented the place. Cards containing directions to 
strangers were suspended, here and there, displaying 
words like the following : — 

“ Drink freely, act friendly, 

Pay kindly, and call again.” 

And yet, with all this evidence of drink sold and used 
every day and every night, without a proper license, that 
place and thousands of a like kind are permitted up till 
the present to exist in New York, in open defiance of the 
law, and to the disadvantage of the decent, honest trad- 
er. 

And this was the first house entered by Mary and 
Ailey ! How many such might they not have entered in 
New York? Alas! too many. Too many where the 
temptations to sin were better concealed ; where the fall 
from virtue is graduated ; where brutal violence is not 
practised in the open manner such as we have witnessed 
in Paddy Farren’s. 

This man was an Irishman, carelessly reared. His 
mother died when he was yet a child, and the cruelty of 
a stepmother brought forth only the evil qualities of 
character, while whatever remained to him of good was 
permitted to become barren and useless. He emigrated 
to America, after having run the gauntlet of vice and 
crime at home, and feeling no disposition to look for 
work, or the means of living honestly, he gave himself 
over to low, coarse indulgences ; and when he became 
proprietor of a boarding-house, believed he had gained 
the summit of earthly prosperity. Often and again he 
intended to reform his life, but he never tried sincerely 
to do so. Business at first did not prosper with him 
sufficiently to enable him to “ make ends meet,” and one 
day, when gloomily reflecting on these things, he swore, 
“ By the living Holy G — ,” that he would make dollars, 
or know why. By that he meant, that under any circum- 


142 


The Lost Rosary. 

stances he would acquire money, and money he did ac- 
quire ; but somehow there seemed to he a burning curse 
sticking to every dollar of his ill-gotten gains. There 
was no profligacy, no matter how bad, that he did not 
permit and encourage. 

Why pursue the sad history of that man any further ? 
He writhed with bitter agony at losing his new lodg- 
ers, not for what money he might have gained by their 
temporary presence, but at the thought of a fresh victim 
rescued from his lust, and made profitable as a money 
speculation afterwards. 

Poor Mary ! poor Ailey ! weak, powerless, and inno- 
cent ! Ye little knew that the hour when ye offered your- 
selves to Raphael, the Guardian Angel, and besought his 
care during your voyage on the Atlantic, was the happi- 
est of your lives. Hark and dismal seemed your pros- 
pects ; but the dangers you escaped ! aye, what of them ? 

Would that we always thought of what we have es- 
caped. Therein we could more readily comprehend the 
goodness of the Hand that protects us. But dangers 
past and unseen have seldom any terrors. 

Mary and Ailey O’Donnell did not fully comprehend 
the nature of the danger that threatened them. They 
felt they had been saved from the evils of a place they 
did not like, and were thankful on that account. Had 
they known the exact nature of these evils, there wero 
not two hearts in the universe would have expanded 
more gratefully, humbly and thankfully to God, and to 
the resplendent Angel whose protection they sought, 
than those two good Irish Girls. 

There are many, very many, species of evil our Irish 
girls know not. They have been reared tenderly, al- 
though, in too many instances, poorly. But their pover- 
ty, and even their ignorance, where the latter exists, are 
blessings of incomprehensible value, if we venture on 
drawing a comparison between these and other miseries 


143 


The Lost Rosary . 

too common among those of their sex in large cities. 
The blissful ignorance of Irish girls in matters pertain- 
ing to the worldly and carnal-minded, is a thing to feel 
grateful for, although there are some to be found who 
prefer the indulgence of passion and vanity to the pres- 
ervation of the soul’s delightful purity. Even in a world- 
ly sense, girls who give themselves over to a paltry in- 
dulgence of tawdry dress, loss of time, when the time is 
legitimately their own, to the neglect of duties, are seldom 
admired by those whose admiration is worth anything. 
Modesty and retirement catch men’s eyes much more 
than bold and forward conduct ; and, while the latter 
may insure a season of successful flirting, they very sel- 
dom terminate in a prudent and happy marriage. Some 
of the best marriages that ever were solemnized in the 
world, were those where the young woman had never 
kept an hour’s private company with her intended hus- 
band, — had never “ shown herself off” at ball or party, — 
and would rather have run the hazard of displeasing 
even by the breaking off of the marriage engagement, 
than venture into the precincts of temptation. These 
are the women who are virtuous for virtue’s sake ; these 
are the mothers fitted to rear wise daughters and brave 
manly sons — the very life of an empire, the ornaments 
of the Church, and the builders-up of our civilization. 
Their progeny are not the insipid, idiotic creatures that 
make a shine like a bit of paste jewelry, and equally as 
worthless. They are the women who give birth to great 
men ; for it is true of all times and places, that great men 
have had great, good mothers. 

Our Irish girls should bear these things in mind, as 
they are valuable, not only in themselves, but for other 
virtues to which they are closely allied. For instance, 
a modest girl, who has no pretension to vain and worth- 
less show, is sure to be an honest girl. She does not en- 
courage a taste for things beyond her reach, and thereby 


144 


The Lost Rosary. 

indirectly slie fortifies lierself against all temptations to 
dishonesty. The girl who is retiring in her conduct, and 
does not make it her study to court attraction, has fewer 
temptations toward improprieties, which, although in- 
nocent and common enough in the beginning, generally 
terminate in ruin to soul and body. As the practise, 
therefore, of one solid virtue begets many others, so the 
indulgence of one passion makes the road easy for others 
to follow. A disposition for spending time idly, although 
the spare hours properly belong to us, and not to our 
employers, is too often the gateway to ruin, and should 
always be carefully avoided. 


The Lost Rosary. 


145 


CHAPTER XXI. 

MARY FINDS A PLACE — AILEY’S DESIRE FOR WORK — 
MOLL ELAN LEY THE COMFORTER. 

“ A heart full of kindness she had, 

For all who were friendless and poor, 

And it never was said of our Moll, 

That a creature was turned from her door.” 

When little Jenny Clarkson came to know that Mary 
and Ailey were to be her boarding-house companions, 
she thought she would have died with joy. 

“ It was as good as a play,” said Moll Hanley, “ to see 
the meetin’ between the children.” Yes, only that the 
acting was natural, hearty, and truthful. Jenny Clark- 
son perfectly screamed with delight. She had always 
borne a good feeling towards Mary and Ailey, but her 
mother forbade her to keep their company, not “ being 
fit society for her daughters ! ” 

But times were changed, since then, and it was quite 
within the bounds of probability, that Mrs. Clarkson 
would have accepted the company of almost any one for 
her daughters. The widow was beginning to realize the 
uncertainty of her position in the house of the Rev. 
Ebenezer Sookes. Miss Longbow and Ebenezer’s sister 
were very much displeased with the Rev. gentleman for 
continuing “ that woman ” in his employment. Mrs. 
Clarkson saw all these displays so unfriendly in her re- 
gard, and she dreaded a change even in the Rev. Ebene- 
zer’s conduct toward her. Willingly, therefore, had she 

10 


146 


The Lost Rosary. 

known it, would Mrs. Clarkson have been, to find her 
daughter Jenny associated with the daughter and niece 
of her old neighbor. But she did not know of their ar- 
rival; and Moll Hanley had prevailed on* Jenny to 
make her visits as few as possible to “ that strange house, 
where the Rev. Naiser Nooks and his women were etar- 
nally gabblin’ and groanin’ about things that ne’er a 
one o’ them understood.” 

Jenny had full faith in the warnings of Moll Hanley, 
and strictly adhered to her advice. She had found it to 
be good, and had proved the devotion of her caretaker, 
who was more to her thah her own mother. 

Mrs. McGlone’s establishment had prospered very well, 
and the success she had experienced made the good wo- 
man still further desirous of performing all the good 
within her reach. 

Little Nelly Noonan had brought home word of some 
vacancies in the warehouse where she was engaged. 

“ An’ is it to sarve under yer Miss Helen Clarkson,” 
sneeringly asked Moll, “ that you’d expect Mary or Ailey 
O’Donnell to so bemane themselves ? No, Nelly. They 
may be hard up, poor things, but God Almighty didn’t 
give me these pair o’ arms for nothin’. I worked before, 
an’ am able to work again ; an’ there’s more nor three 
score dollars in a place I know, an’ the divil a step aither 
o’ them will ever take that road, if I can prevent it.” 

Both Mary and Ailey expressed their thanks to the 
good-hearted, generous Moll, but thought there would 
be no harm just in trying. They were anxious for em- 
ployment, and were willing to try anything for a begin- 
ning. 

Moll replied very positively. She had it in contempla- 
tion, she said, to get some other place for little Nelly. 
She didn’t like “ the consarn by any manner o’ means,” 
and would much rather Mary and Ailey would wait a 
while. “ There was better things in store for them, if 


The Lost Rosary. 147 

they just patiently ’bided their time, an’ made themselves 
comfortable, an’ gave themselves no annoyance.” 

“ But for a beginning,” insisted Mary. 

“ And then it is so pleasant to be employed,” urged 
Ailey. 

“ And I would give anything to have them near me,” 
quietly remarked Nelly Noonan. 

Jenny Clarkson just then entered, and brought the in- 
telligence that her sister had left her place, and had gone 
to another situation provided for her by the Rev. Ebene- 
zer Sookes. 

“ O, just come to-morrow morning,” said Nelly Noonan, 
addressing Mary, “ and I’m sure you’ll get the place.” 

“ Well, that alters the carcumstances very much,” said 
Moll. “ I can understan’ your goin’ now an’ tryin’,” she 
added, with a satisfied look at her proteges; “but yees 
wouldn’t have had any pace nor contentment under — I 
mane, yees wouldn’t have liked to work with Nelly Clark- 
son as your mistress.” 

Moll felt that she ought to speak, if not kindly, at 
least not altogether as she felt, towards “ Helen ” Clark- 
son, in presence of Jenny. 

Next morning saw Mary and Ailey present themselves, 
as applicants for employment, in the establishment re- 
cently presided over by Jenny’s sister. 

Mary obtained leave to enter on trial, but the other 
vacancies had been filled, and Ailey was not successful. 

The poor girl was downcast, and felt sorrowful enough. 
She knew well that between herself and her cousin there 
was but one purse; one will seemed to govern them 
both ; but now Mary was absent during the day, and 
that left Ailey too much time at her disposal, and so she 
began to indulge in thoughts of a cheerless character. 

There is scarcely any trial greater than enforced idle- 
ness, to one who desires to work in order to earn a de- 
cent livelihood, as well as for love of work in itself. 


148 


The Lost Rosary. 

Then Ailey’s mind would revert to Tim, and she won- 
dered if Mary thought as much about Barney. 

One night after Mary’s return from work, Ailey, who 
had been more than ordinarily desponding during the 
day, told her that she had formed the resolution of go- 
ing out and seeking for employment. 

Mary was distressed, but kindly inquired what kind 
of employment she would look for ? 

“Anything I can get, dear cousin — no matter what, 
provided it be decent,” answered Ailey. 

“ That place of mine appears to be suitable enough, 
and I have little doubt that shortly you may obtain a 
post there,” urged Mary, desirous of breaking Ailey’s res- 
olution, and prevent a separation. 

“ But it is so tedious waiting, and the uncertainty 
makes the trial greater, dear Mary ; so that, after weigh- 
ing the matter over in my mind, I have resolved to look 
about for a place. You know I may not succeed,” quietly 
remarked the girl, “ and then I’ll have to burden you as 
I am doing at present,” she added. 

“ To separate now, after all we have gone through and 
suffered together, is neither wise nor kind,” promptly re- 
plied Mary, with the least tinge of disappointment in her 
voice. 

Now Ailey, with all her good qualities, was not alto- 
gether ingenuous in this little proceeding. She had in- 
directly learned that Mary was deceived as to the exact 
cost of providing for both in the boarding-house, and 
she had a strong suspicion that Moll Hanley had ar- 
ranged with Mrs. McGlone to keep the matter secret for 
“just a wee while longer.” Ailey did not like to make 
known what she knew under this head, and one of her 
reasons was, lest Mary should ask her the very pertinent 
question, How she came to know? It may be as well to 
state, that Ailey had learned as much from Nelly Noonan 
and Jenny Clarkson as enabled her to form her judg- 
ment correctly. 


149 


The Lost Eosary. 

Very few girls would have given themselves any con- 
cern in such things, seeing that they were so warmly 
welcomed by all alike. Not so Ailey O’Donnell. She 
dreaded idleness as a great temptation. She found that 
want of regular employment encouraged her to indulge 
in thinking, and she always felt dissatisfied with herself 
after a lengthened indulgence of that sort. Perhaps 
Ailey scarcely ever said as much, and might not have 
cared to have the state of her mind made known, but 
cousin Mary knew her nature intimately. 

“ I’m sure you do not speak after reflection,” said 
Ailey, “ if you consider me as acting either unwisely or 
unkind.” 

“ I didn’t mean it in that sense,” Mary quickly replied, 
and both girls were for a while silent. 

“ However,” exclaimed the last speaker, “ if you have 
made up your mind to go ” 

“ Mary, you do me an injustice,” sobbed Ailey, and the 
tears flowed from her eyes. 

“ You know I have no desire, no disposition to leave 
you, nor to part from you, even for a day. God help me, 
and pity me,” continued the heart-broken girl, with her 
eyes and hands raised towards heaven. 

“ Say no more, dear cousin,” urged Mary. Our lot is, 
indeed, hard enough to bear. I’m sure you will not think 
worse of me for my little selfishness in what I have 
urged. We are lonely and friendless, and except for 
these good women, our change into this part of the 
world would be hard indeed to bear.” 

Moll Hanley made her appearance just then. It was 
just possible that she heard the last remarks, for she ap- 
peared very kind-looking to both girls, and, without any 
apparent cause, began laughing, and used every exertion 
to make both Mary and Ailey as cheerful as herself. 

Good, kind, Moll Hanley ! Many, nay, the greater part 
of the wise humanity of the world would have passed you 


150 


The Lost Rosary. 

by as a very common sort of person. But this story, which 
is truthful in every line, must do you more justice than 
the said wise humanity would have done you, or any of 
your class or character. 

Moll Hanley had a good deal of unseen wisdom about 
her, and knew as much by her intuitive perception as 
many others would have learned from direct causes. 
Long before that night she had properly judged Ailey’s 
disposition, and loved the girl for her hatred of idleness. 
Moll was a romping good worker herself, and relished the 
same in others. Her heart seldom shone in the fulness 
of its beauty and goodness. That was an exposure of 
too much hidden treasure, which Moll did not like to 
make before the world. Whenever she was afraid of be- 
ing extra-kind or good-natured, poor Moll used to pull 
down her brows, or try to do it, which was worse than 
if she had succeeded, and, in an assumed gruff voice, 
would “ spake her sintiments jist as natur’ taught her;” 
but any one, with the least pretension to sharpness, 
might have easily perceived under this the beauty of a 
kindly disposed nature, a warm and generous heart, that 
made Moll Hanley a perfect woman, and that is saying a 
good deal for her. 

“There’s trouble here, an’ plenty of it too, that’s 
plain,” said Moll, for a beginning. “ How, there you are, 
both o’ you enjoyin’ a hundred blessin’s that many a one 
in your state niver knew a bit about. Only a short while 
in the new country, and not over an hour in Pat Far- 
ren’s house. Troth it’s a rale shame you might think o’ 
yourselves, so it is, to be lamentin’, an,’ maybe, flyin’ in 
the face o’ Providence ye’ll be afther doin’, that guarded 
ye, as few have ever been guarded before.” 

“ But it’s not my fault, indeed, Moll,” began Mary ; “ j 
was only remonstrating ” 

“ To be sure, now. That’ll do, sure ; it’s all our faults, 
to be sure it is.” 


The Lost Rosary. 151 

“ The fault, whatever there’s of it, is all mine,” said 
Ailey ; “ but I’m sure ” 

“ There now, that’ll do for both o’ you, I say,” perempt- 
orily added Moll. 

A few words sufficed to show the kind-hearted crea- 
ture how matters really stood, and to Ailey’s great relief 
Moll sided with her, and Mary was quite reconciled, if not 
altogether satisfied, to the proposed change. It was ar- 
ranged that Ailey might seek for employment, but not 
to accept any situation that would deprive the cousins 
of meeting, at least on Sundays. 

“And now that we have that all settled, allow me just 
to sit here for a little, till I show you a parable that 
might make yees thankful to God and His Blessed Moth- 
er, for escapin’ sickness and trouble, and maybe worse, 
an’ poverty, after all, into the bargain.” 

Mary and Ailey were anxious to hear, and as they felt 
thoroughly reconciled to each other, wished Moll to pro- 
ceed. Moll filled her pipe, preparatory to relating what 
she termed “ A lesson for them that’s willin’ to learn.” 


152 


The Lost Bosary . 


CHAPTER XXII. 

MOLL HANLEY’S STORY. 

“ A picture of grief, sin, and shame, 

For a curse she had brought on her name.” 

“ Let me see,” said Moll, with her head averted a little 
to the side. “ It’s now somewhere over one-and-twenty 
years ago since there lived a pretty girl named Alice 
McGrain. Her father, God be good to him, was a fine 
man, but very hasty in his temper. He had a wife — 
well, the least said the soonest mended ; an’ if we can’t 
spake well o’ the dead, we must jist keep quiet — at any 
rate, Attie McGrain’s wife didn’t rear her daughter as 
she might, an’ before Alice was twelve years ould, her 
mother died, leavin’ a purty large family o’ young childer 
after her. Alice was the ouldest, an’ her father bein’ 
purty well to do, had her kept at school when she should 
have been at home attendin’ to her brothers and sisters. 
That’s the truth I tell you, for I mind it well. So, 
my dears, the girl got to think it would never be day 
with her, an’ it’s high enough she held her head, I tell 
ye. Her father used to be delighted with her, especially 
of a Sunday, when the weather was fine, an’ she out 
walkin’ an’ visitin’. She was scarcely come eighteen 
when bad stories were circulated about poor Alice, an’ of 
course they reached the father s ears, an’ at first he got 
into a fearful temper. So one day, when the thing be- 
gun to dawn on his mind, off he marched, an’ wasn’t 
seen for six long days ; then he returned, an’ any 


153 


The Lost Rosary. 

one who knew him before wouldn’t have known him 
then, he was so awfully changed. He had gone to a dis- 
tant part of the country to see his brother, an’ sure 
enough, he got to take the drink, an’ was nearly dead 
afore he stopped it. However, as I’m tellin’ yees, back 
he came, an’ — as it was gettin’ evidenter every day, that 
Alice wasn’t a bit belied, — so what does he do, thought- 
less man, but off he went, purchased a passage ticket for 
Ameriky, an’ packed her off.” 

“ But what had she done ? ” inquired Ailey, who was 
all attention. 

“ Jist wait awhile an’ ye’ll hear,” said Moll. 

“ She landed in Ameriky, an’ the third day after, she 
gave birth to a fine child. Well, as God was good, the 
poor innocent was baptized, an’ died the same day.” 

“ That, indeed, was a blessing,” interrupted Mary. 

“ Yes, my child, you may say that,” continued Moll. 
“ It was a blessin’, jist one o’ these blessin’s that no one 
can tell the value of. Alice went distracted at the 
thought of her child bein’ taken from her ; an’ I’m tould 
by them that saw it, that it took two men to lift her off 
the little coffin, an’ her screams were so awful that near- 
ly everybody ran away. She would have killed herself 
if she hadn’t been well watched, for she often threatened 
to put an ind to her own life. As it was, she took the 
fever, an’ for two long weeks she didn’t know scarce 
where she was. She was removed to an hospital, and 
got every sort o’ good care. When she began to recover, 
she was like any ghost, an’ nobody that ever saw her be- 
fore, would have known her then. However, to pass that 
over, she got quite well, and was turned out o’ the place. 
One of the doctors who had known her, recommended 
her to a good situation, an’ for five or six months she got 
on very well, and plazed her employers in everything 
she did. Her mistress, a good, kind-hearted Irish lady, 
knew a little of Alice’s history, an’ although she never 


154 


The Lost Rosary . 

allowed that knowledge to interfere with her goodness, 
still it made her, I dare say, keep a sharper eye on the 
girl’s general conduct. An’ sure, she wouldn’t have 
been a lady at all, much less a good Irish woman, if she 
hadn’t done that same. But poor, foolish Alice, couldn’t 
see that a watchful eye was a friend, an’ so she got to 
dislike her home. 

“ One evening Alice went out for a walk, as usual, and 
had two o’ the childer with her, takin’ care o’ them, but 
musha, God bless us, it was the poor care she took o’ 
them ! She wasn’t over half an hour gone, when she hap- 
pened to meet with an acquaintance, a young man that 
hadn’t a bit o’ a character to lose. Now, her mistress 
had repeatedly cautioned her against all private meet- 
ings, especially with strangers ; but, * out o’ sight, out o’ 
mind ; ’ Alice didn’t care a straw about who she met, so 
long as she wasn’t seen.” 

“ One of the very worst things a young woman could 
be guilty of,” said Mary, with particular emphasis in the 
tone of her voice. 

“A truer word never escaped your lips, dear,” said 
Moll. “ At any rate, the young man invited her into a 
saloon to trate her, an’ Alice was nothin’ loth to accept 
the offer. The two poor innocent childer were taken in, 
of course, an’ my lady Alice was introduced to new ac- 
quaintances, an’ so she sat there for nearly an hour.” 

“ And the poor innocent children seeing all the vice 
of the place,” said Ailey. 

“ Well, one o’ them, at laste, wasn’t much injured by 
bad impressions, any way,” continued Moll. “What 
with the taste o’ drink and the merry company, she paid 
little attention to her charge. There she was, dear, sated 
on the young man’s knee, an’ she laughin’ at the immod- 
est jokes that was spoken, an’ joinin’ in the same herself. 
Oh ! it was terrible to hear the account of it given by the 
young man who was a waiter in the place. All at once 


155 


The Lost Boaary. 

there was heard the most awful scream that ever fell on 
a human ear. Every one in the saloon rushed out to the 
door, to see what it was, an,’ God be good to us, there was 
the youngest child lyin’ killed dead in the middle o’ the 
street, an’ its brains dashed all about. The poor little 
dear had been playin’ about the door, and wandered into 
the middle o’ the street, an’ a big wagon was justpassin’ 
at the time. The child saw its danger, an’ the poor thing 
thought to get out o’ the way, but it fell within half a 
yard o’ one o’ the wheels, an’ its head was smashed into 
bits.” 

Moll paused in her story, and covered her eyes with 
both hands, as she recalled the frightful scene. 

Mary and Ailey were terribly shocked, and could not 
keep back the tears that flowed in sympathy with Moll, 
and thinking, no doubt, at the time, of the sufferings of 
the kind master and mistress, who had committed the 
care of their children to so faithless a being. 

“ You may guess the sad hearts the poor father and 
mother had,” said Moll, “when their darlin’ child was 
carried into them a corpse, an’ a cloth over the poor 
thing’s head, that couldn’t be removed in presence of its 
mother. The good lady wasn’t very strong, and the 
shock nearly killed her. For three long months she was 
confined to her room ; an’ it’s often an’ often her distracted 
husband thought his wife’s life would pay the penalty 
of their misfortune. She was visited by the clergy an’ 
the doetor every day ; and after a while the unfortunate 
mother got roun’ again, glory be to God, but she was 
never the same thing. The father’s grief was just as bad, 
but he was a fine gentleman, an’ his sufferin’s were all 
buried deeply in his heart. So you see, it wasn’t alone 
the unnatural death o’ the poor child that came as a 
punishment, but the sickness an’ trouble that followed, 
for evil seldom comes alone.” 

“ And what was done to the girl ? ” eagerly inquired 
Moll’s hearers. 


156 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ Jist wait till ye see,” replied Moll. “ Her story was 
neatly got up : She was engaged running after the old- 
est of the childer at the corner where the accident oc- 
curred, an’ while so doin’, the youngest one attempted 
to cross the street. That was partly true, for, in the 
hurry at the time, the oldest did, as Alice said, turn up 
a street, an’ she had to follow her ; but even it wasn’t 
past four years’ old, dPn’ couldn’t contradict the nurse. 
The crowd gathered so suddenly at the time the child 
was killed, that Alice was in the middle o’ them in no 
time ; an’ after all that happened, she remained on in 
her place ; both master an’ mistress really believin’ that 
the accident was none o’ her fault, or, at least, that it 
did not arise from her bad conduct an’ negligence. Alice 
was like one in a dream for a long time after the poor 
innocent thing was laid in its grave — Och ! an’ sich a 
grave ! and the weeney headstone — not the size o’ that!” 
and Moll joined her hands together, to indicate the size 
of the little memorial erected over the grave, “ an’ jist two 
or three words on it — ‘Our Little Bridget’ — in a 
semi-circle.” 

Here Moll produced a small card and showed the 
above. 

“Why, as true as death, that’s the same little head- 
stone, Ailey, that we saw last Sunday,” exclaimed Mary* 

Ailey next examined the card Moll produced, and was 
startled at the coincidence. Both girls had taken a trip 
over to Long Island, and proceeded to the Catholic burying 
place on the Sunday previous. Ailey saw her own name on 
a tombstone. Mary saw the name of a dear friend of 
hers on another, and then both were attracted to a small 
grave, beautifully ornamented with shells and flowers. 
The little tablet, at the head of the grave, struck them as 
being singular, and during all that evening they could 
not help wondering at the simple announcement— “ Our 
Little Bridget.” 


157 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ Then it ’s jist the self-same,” continued Moll. “ How- 
ever, as I was tellin’ yees, Alice McGrain continued on 
in her place for over six months. But ye would jist 
have thought that a curse was about the house that con- 
tained her. Her mistress bein’ so long ill, the master’s 
business did not prosper, an’ after awhile they had to 
give Alice her lave. Oh, the impidence o’ that girl ! She 
flew at her mistress like a vile thing, an’ called her dread- 
ful names, an’ raised such ructions that she had to be 
put out. She had kept up correspondin’ with the young 
man in whose company she was the day the child was 
killed, an’ had arranged to get married to him in about 
a couple o’ months after she was dismissed. God 
knows what damage she might have done before that 
time if she had the power ; at any rate, she had to go to a 
boardin’-house, an’ the young fellow quit her company 
afterwards. Now, strange as it may appear, it’s a fact 
that the lady and gintleman began to thrive every day 
after that girl left the place. Many a time afterwards, 
she was seen in drinking saloons, an’ dancin’ places, an’ 
finally she gave up all thought o’ herself, an’ went clane 
to the bad. She was a livin’ scandal to any one that ever 
knew her.” 

“ Dear help her friends,” said Mary, with much feel- 
ing. 

“ Aye, God help them,” said Moll ; “ an’ now, my dear 
girls, listen : that girl was my own sister’s daughter, an’ 
it was to try if I could do anything with her that brought 
me to America. I saw her just twice, an’ only spoke 
once to her, an’ after all I learned I gave up the at- 
tempt.” 

“ Then she ’s living yet?” said Mary. 

“ Living, dear, yes,” replied Moll, with a choking 
sensation in her throat, “an’ will, I hope, till God’s 
good moment comes, if it ever comes. So make your 
mind easy, my dear girl,” said Moll, addressing Ailey ; 


158 


The Lost Rosary. 

1 the want o’ the bit o’ work is unpleasant, but there are 
a thousand worse things than dependin’ on a good friend 
like your cousin Mary there. Jist wait, in God’s name, 
an’ take everything smoothly an’ quietly for awhile, 
an’ many a blessin’ will come of it.” 


The Lost Rosary. 


159 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

STRANGE INCIDENT IN A GRAVEYARD — FINDING OF THE 
DONG DOST ROSARY. 

“ I’ve numbered these beads, 

By night and by day, 

And I know them with closed eyes, 

Whenever I pray.” 

Next Sunday, Mary and Ailey felt irresistibly inclined 
to pay another visit to the graveyard, to look at the 
little grave. They now felt a double interest in it, and 
they waited almost impatiently for the day to come 
round. 

On Sunday morning, both girls went to an early Mass, 
and afterwards betook themselves to the graveyard. 

Let us enter with them. 

Here, indeed, is the City of the Dead ! The Homes of 
the Departed are as thick as the dwelling-houses of a 
city. Each grave is a “ tenement”-house : it contains 
many members of a family. See, there are other places 
where the poor are buried. They are as thickly packed 
together as in life. These are the real “ tenement”- 
houses of the Dead, — piled one upon another, just as 
they were in life, — crowded and crushed into a narrow 
sepulchre, with a light sprinkling of earth over them, 
but sufficient for the one great purpose, to preserve 
their decaying bodies from distempering the air. Ye 
poor ! ye were a nuisance in life, ye are the same in death. 
Why were ye poor ? Speak out from your graves and 


160 


The Lost Rosary . 

tell us, Why were ye poor ? Close beside ye are hand- 
some marble monuments, carved and fretted in the high- 
est art of the sculptor ; tablets, with letters of gold, de- 
tail the virtues of those who repose beneath. How 
many instances may be found wherein such tableted vir- 
tues are the only acknowledgment of dead men’s good- 
ness. How often are such tributes to their memories 
sculptured lies. Alas, how often ! Virtue and goodness 
lie huddled together, while in many instances, vice and 
villany occupy the reserved “ lots ” as they did in life. 

True, many of these tombstones, with their beauti- 
fully carved crosses and marble angels, cover the mortal 
remains of the sainted and good, but, as a rule, the mar- 
ble is as great a liar in life as in death. 

O, how sweet to reflect that, as we wander among the 
homes of those who have gone before us, that there is 
indeed a heaven ! how consoling the thought that there 
is a Judge who sums up the evidence of the heart, — who 
knows the feelings of those who would bear false testi- 
mony, — who sees, with His omniscient and inscrutable 
eye, the motive of every act, and who will render justice 
to all alike, irrespective of their poverty or wealth. That 
is the true consoler, that robs death of its bitterest pang, 
and gives to the troubled soul the sweet solace of an 
unmixed joy. 

Mary and Ailey walked arm-in-arm among the graves. 
They admired the stately erections placed by loving 
hands over deceased parents, and felt a sort of spiritual 
joy at the many manifestations of that ever living faith 
that delights the hearts of the virtuous and true, and 
which meet the eye at every turn in a place of sepulture, 
such as that visited by Ailey and Mary. 

As the two girls approached the spot sacred to the 
memory of “ Our Little Bridget,” they observed a lady 
and gentleman reverently engaged in decking the grave 
with fresh flowers. They immediately made a sudden 


161 


The Lost Rosary. 

turn, not wishing to intrude, and guessing rightly that 
those engaged in that office of love were the parents of 
the deceased child. 

Scarcely had Mary retraced her steps but a few yards 
when her eye rested on a marble Cross, the sight of which 
almost deprived her of the power of motion. She was 
leaning on her cousin’s arm, and Ailey felt a convulsive 
movement that thrilled through every nerve of her body. 
She looked in Mary’s face, which was pale as death, and 
in a voice fluttering with excitement, asked her what 
was the matter ? 

But Mary couldn’t speak. Ailey got alarmed, and 
turned to call for help. The lady and gentleman were 
about to leave;, and, observing the distracted look of 
Ailey, approached the girls. 

Mary gasped, and pointed to the Cross, while Ailey, 
with a bound, sprang forward to the object, and there, 
reverently suspended from one of the arms, was Mary’s 
Long Lost Rosary ! 

When Mary regained her treasure, she clasped it to 
her heart, then kissed it again and again. The gentle- 
man and lady now became interested spectators, and, 
approaching nearer to the two girls, inquired kindly if 
there was anything wrong with them ? 

“Nothing, sir,” replied Ailey. “We were just a little 
startled at finding a Rosary — a present of my cousin’s.” 

“I’m very glad you found it,” said the gentleman- 
“ Only a few minutes ago,” he continued, “ I was pass- 
ing, and saw the Rosary lying on the grave. I suspected 
that some one had been kneeling there and had forgot- 
ten it, and I hung it on the arm of the Cross, in order to 
attract the eye of the owner.” 

“ O, how kind of you, sir ; but for that my cousin would 
not likely have ever seen it.” 

“ But would you not have known the grave again 
where you dropped it ? ” he inquired, somewhat puzzled 

11 


162 


The Lost Rosary. 

at the affectionate manner in which Mary had received 
what appeared to him as a thing of little value. 

“ Explain to the lady and gentleman, Ailey,” said Ma- 
ry, in a voice exceedingly tremulous. 

Ailey did so in as brief a manner as possible. The 
lady felt greatly interested both in the appearance of the 
girls, and in what she had heard. So did the gentleman, 
who felt highly gratified that he had the good fortune 
to not pass unheeded the little article of devotion which 
he had observed lying among the grass on the grave. 

“ Then you had no other business here, but to visit 
the grave of ‘ our little Bridget ?’ ” said the lady, inquir- 
ingly. 

“ None, ma’am,” replied Ailey. 

“Your friend appears very much agitated,” said the 
gentleman, in a very friendly tone of voice. 

“ Only a little, sir,” answered Mary, with an effort that 
ill bespoke the thorough truthfulness of her reply. 

Both the lady and gentleman expressed their desire 
that Mary and Ailey should pay them a visit whenever 
they had leisure, and for that purpose gave them their 
address. 

The girls promised to do as requested, and the lady 
and genleman kindly took their leave. 

Mary and Ailey remained, and when alone both, with 
one impulse, knelt down just at the spot where the Lost 
Rosaky was recovered, and silently engaged in prayer. 

The Cross on which the gentleman had so carefully 
and thoughtfully placed the fond remembrancer of Bar- 
ney McAuley, was somewhat singular and attractive. It 
was of plain dove marble, with a sculptured wreath in 
the middle of the upright shaft, and the word “ Mother,” 
in bass relief, inside the wreath or coronal. The whole 
structure was simple, but was inexpressibly beautiful on 
that very account. 

“Who would have thought it!” said Ailey, quite 


163 


The Lost Rosary. 

cheerfully. “ Here we came out for a quiet stroll among 
the graves, and, just as sure as we live to-day, there ’s 
lots of good luck before us.” 

“Yes; it is exceedingly strange,” said Mary. “Com- 
ing out here to have another peep at the little grave ; 
meeting the father and mother of the poor little Bridget ; 
for I am sure,” she continued, “ they are none other ; 
finding poor Barney’s long lost present just hanging be- 
side the word ‘ Mother ; ’ oh, it is very strange ! ” and 
Mary clasped the Eosary in both her hands, and kissed it 
again and again, with a fervor that meant something 
more than the recovery of a lost present of so little in- 
trinsic value, but invaluable to her for all the associa- 
tions connected with it, — and especially for that sweet 
and admirable devotion of which it is the emblem. 

“ I think we will return now,” said Ailey. 

“ Won’t you promise now, dear cousin, not to separate 
from me to look for work? ” asked Mary, unconscious of 
Ailey’s hint to return. 

“ Well, Mary, you are a wonderful girl. Do you really 
think that I wish to separate or part from you ? ” said 
Ailey. 

“ But you’ll see what good will come out of this,” add- 
ed Mary. “ I know it, I feel it,” she cried out most rap- 
turously. 

“ Well, shouldn’t we retrace our steps now,” hinted 
Ailey, once more ; for Mary really seemed rooted to the 
spot. 

“ I was just thinking,” said the latter, “ that perhaps 
the person who dropped or left the Eosary here might 
return to search for it, and by that means I could learn 
all about it.” 

Ailey consented to this arrangement, adding, “ There 
can be no person but the girl you saw in the hospital 
concerned in it.” 

“ Even so,” replied Mary. “ The greatest part of my 


164 


The Lost Rosary . 

grief at that very time was to learn how she came by it.” 

Both remained, and not finding any person as expect- 
ed, they strolled through the burying-ground for half an 
hour afterward, but failed to discover any one visiting 
the grave where the Rosary had been found. 

When Moll Hanley and Mrs. McGlone had learned the 
good fortune that attended the visit to the burying- 
ground, they shared in the general happiness of Mary and 
Ailey. “ Och, but God’s ways is like nobody else’s ways,” 
cried Moll. “Jist to think of it now! Sure, an’ if I 
hadn’t tould yees that story about the misfortunate Alice 
McGrain, ten chances to one yees would never have 
thought of going to see the little grave. And, my good- 
ness, you might have been just an hour earlier or later, 
as not one of yees would ever have seen it. Well, to be 
sure, what strange things do happen at times !” and Moll 
seemed lost in meditation. “ It ’s no use,” she cried out, 
“ trying to unravel what ’s unravelable — there ’s a high- 
er power nor us to do these things — but that ’s one o’ the 
strangest occurrences I’ve met with this many a day. 

Next morning, Mary proceeded to her daily toil with 
a much lighter heart than she had experienced for a 
long time. Her troubles had been great, and were nobly 
borne. She had formed some notion in her mind, that 
if Ailey left her to find a place, that all she had gone 
through would rush back upon her heart, and be ever 
present before her mind. That morning, Mrs. McGlone 
had been and procured some needle work, at which 
Ailey was an adept, and poor Mary had the gratification 
of beholding Ailey busy at her sewing before she left. 
Inwardly throughout that day she kept her heart raised 
to God, and in humble heartfelt thankfulness directed 
her thoughts to Her who had proved herself a Protect- 
ress and a Refuge in the dark hours of trouble and heavy 
trials. She felt she was no longer unprotected, and 
somehow her thoughts did wander to Barney McAuley, 


165 


The Lost Rosary . 

and for the first time since her arrival in America, felt 
some sort of assurance that she would yet see him. 
Would he be changed? Would Tim still be his com- 
panion? Did Ailey think more about Tim than she 
thought of Barney ? These, and a hundred other . such 
like thoughts kept coursing through Mary’s mind all 
that day, and when she returned in the evening, Ailey 
was very glad to see what a delightful change for the 
better had taken place in the appearance of cousin Mary. 
Ailey, too, was changed, and Mary was not slow to per- 
ceive it ; but Ailey attributed all her happiness to the 
renovated looks of her cousin. 


166 


The Lost Rosary. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

MARY AND AILEY WITH THEIR NEW FRIENDS— A SUR- 
PRISE. 

“ O Life and Love ! O happy throng 
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song! 

O heart of man ! canst thou not be 
Blithe as the air is, and as free ? ” 

Mr. and Mrs. O’Meara, the lady and gentleman who 
met Mary and Ailey in the burying-ground, occupied a 
house in a highly respectable locality in New York. Mr. 
O’Meara was a merchant who owed his position to his 
industry, perseverance, and integrity in business. Like 
many others, he arrived in New York a poor penniless 
boy; but he possessed the right qualities that command 
respect and ensure success. In his earlier days, he suf- 
fered a good deal of annoyance and petty persecution. 
On one occasion, he was treated very badly by an employ- 
er : he was accused of appropriating a small sum of mon- 
ey, and was told to leave his place instantly. As he was 
leaving, he heard the remark — “ What could you expect 
of an Irish brat of a Papist, who hadn’t a soul to recom- 
mend him ? ” 

Young O’Meara turned sharply round, and, with his 
face beaming with honest indignation, said : — ■“ I am Irish, 
and a Papist, too, and that is just the reason that I 
wouldn’t condescend to the commission of the crime 
you lay to my charge.” 

“ What’s that you say ! ” roared out his master, a man 


The Lost Rosary. 167 

who was acting more on the information of others than 
on his own judgment. 

O’Meara repeated his words. 

“ Come here, sir ! ” shouted the employer. 

O’Meara obeyed. 

“ Do you mean to say that you didn’t take that quar- 
ter? ” 

“ Certainly, sir, I mean to deny it,” was the quick re- 
sponse, while the blood mantled the face of the speaker. 

A sharp blow on the cheek was the result of such 
plain speech, and O’Meara departed. 

“ Irish or Papist, Papist or Irish, that young fellow is 
as innocent as I am,” said a gentleman who witnessed 
the whole proceeding. 

“ Boss ” was annoyed. He sent after the young man, 
but he couldn’t be found. 

“ Darn the young cuss ; p’raps he is innocent, after all,” 
he said. 

Six months afterwards, “ that quarter ” was found where 
it had no right to be, and “ Boss ” declared he felt both 
glad and sorry. 

“ If I could only find O’Meara,” he exclaimed, “ I would 
make it all square with the poor fellow; ” but he didn’t 
then find him. 

Shortly afterwards a gentleman called upon this em- 
ployer, telling him that a young man paid him a visit 
that day, seeking after a place. When asked for a refer- 
ence, he said he had none to give except that of his first 
employer, and there was no use applying to him, as he 
had dismissed him for the alleged appropriation of a 
quarter-dollar. This seemed very strange to the gentle- 
man. It was like a self-accusation against the young 
man himself, and, feeling an interest in the poor boy, he 
determined to learn the truth of the whole affair. 

“ What he says is true,” replied O’Meara’s old employ- 
er. “ He was accused, sir, but wrongly accused ; and if I 




168 The Lost Rosary. 

can find him out, either in your employment, or in the 
employment of any other person, I’ll have him, sir — I’ll 
have him at any cost.” 

“ I am very glad I called upon you,” said the stranger, 
“ as my visit may benefit the young man. I will send 
him to you, sir, straight away.” 

Shortly afterward, O’Meara appeared before his first 
and only employer in New York. 

“ Glad to see you,” said “ Boss,” extending his hand to 
his former employee. 

“ Thank you, sir,” the young fellow replied. 

“ See now,” continued the master, “I did you an inju- 
ry, young man ; nothing like acknowledging a fault of 
that sort, because there is no other proper way of repair- 
ing a thing of that kind. See now, go you into that store, 
raise yourself to a position in it, and when you want a 
friend, or a big thing done, just you tell me first, d’ye 
hear?” 

“ Yes, sir,” replied O’Meara; and the young fellow re- 
turned his thanks, telling at the same time that he had 
applied in a dozen places for employment, but was refus- 
ed in consequence of his story. When questioned, he 
adhered to the truth, and would not vary one jot, even 
to get a place. He was unskilled in the tricks of others, 
and for some time could not comprehend the cause of 
his being repeatedly refused. He imagined that the 
heinousness of the charge laid against him should have, 
at least, procured him commiseration; but those who 
required his services only laughed at him, and, of course, 
did not believe one word he said. He contrived to live 
by engaging at some menial employment, but his spirit 
yearned for decent work,— hence the attempt that at last 
found favor in the eyes of the gentleman who called up- 
on his former employer. Sink or swim, this young fel- 
low determined on following the maxim, “ Honesty is 
the best policy ;” and a lie he would not tell, even to gain 
himself the means of a comfortable living. 


The Lost Rosary . 169 

Things righted themselves in his regard, after all, as 
they invariably do, if attended to in a like manner. 

He had not now to win the confidence of the man in 
whose employment he was engaged ; that was already 
won ; but he had to prove his worth in a thousand dif- 
ferent ways, and he did prove it. 

For nearly fourteen years, he remained in the one em- 
ployment. At the end of that time he, by advice, start- 
ed business on his own account, and was very successful. 
His business was of that nature that his personal super- 
intendence was requisite almost hourly. After the un- 
timely death of his child, Mr. O’Meara suffered more in 
mind and body than his wife or nearest friend were 
aware of, and the consequence was a considerable falling 
off in the business of his place. As he recovered from 
the shock, his trade also revived, and at the time we are 
first introduced to this gentleman and his good lady, 
both were trying to forget the heavy affliction that had 
befallen them in the cruel death of Our Little Bridget.” 

Sunday came round, and Mary and Ailey wended their 
way to Mr. O’Meara’s. They were very kindly received 
by Mrs. O’Meara, who, since the accidental meeting in 
the Cemetery, had conceived a strong liking for the two 
strange girls. 

“ Mr. O’Meara is not home from vespers,” said the 
lady; “but he will be in soon, as he expects to see 
you both.” 

“ He is very kind,” said Mary, who felt a little ill at 
ease in consequence of the grandeur of the apartment 
into which she had been introduced. 

“ We are quite satisfied at seeing yourself, Madam, and 
hope you are quite well,” said Ailey. 

“ Yes, indeed, thank you ; I am vastly improved these 
few weeks,” replied Mrs. O'Meara, highly pleased with 
the modesty of the girls, and the kind inquiry of Ailey. 

Mary O’Meara, the only child of the lady and gentle- 


170 


The Lost Rosary. 

man whom Mary and Ailey were visiting, was a sweet lit- 
tle cherub, with beautiful yellow hair and large blue eyes. 
Immediately on seeing Mary and Ailey, she kept close to 
them, and nestled in beside Ailey, as if she had known 
her long before. Ailey was delighted and amused with 
her. 

The bell rang, and little Mary ran to the parlor door, 
shouting out, “ Pa, Papa a-comin’.” It was just as the 
child surmised, Mr. O’Meara entered, and was well pleas- 
ed at seeing his two new-made friends. He saw at once 
that his wife was well pleased with her visitors, and he 
declared he had not seen little Mary so blithe and merry 
for a long time before. 

Mary and Ailey, it must be told, had not a superabund- 
ance of dress, and especially of that class of dress which 
might have been expected by outsiders, as most suitable 
for persons visiting the O’Meara’s. Their dress was ex- 
ceedingly plain and unpretentious. There was a ribbon 
or two visible, but that was all in the shape of shining 
colors. The girls’ dresses, however, were exceedingly 
neat, and in excellent taste, and this was the secret that 
made them please both Mr. and Mrs. O’Meara so well. 
Tea was ordered, and a right pleasant hour was spent. 
The only servant in the house was a general maid-ser- 
vant ; the cook had her “ Sunday out ; ” and no nursery- 
maid had been there since Alice McGrain. The maid- 
servant was a fine, sturdy young Irishwoman, with a 
face as rosy, and as pleasant to look upon, as the dawn 
of a fine summer morning in June. 

Servant Kitty was introduced to Mary and Ailey, and 
the two latter did feel a slight blush rise to their cheeks, 
as Kitty curtseyed, and hoped the “ young ladies were 
quite well.” 

Kitty joined the party at tea, and a right pleasant eve- 
ning was spent by one and all. Little Mary O’Meara was 
half wild with joy. She ran about in such a manner as 


171 


The Lost Rosary. 

she had not done for a long time before ; and the merri- 
ment that shone in her eyes was like balm to the heart 
of both parents. She sat on Ailey’s knee, then on Mary’s, 
as if undecided which to like best. 

It is somewhat strange that children are seldom if ever 
wrong in the instinct of their likes and dislikes towards 
strangers; and I have often heard it remarked by those 
who closely watch such things, that such a person can- 
not be good, as a child could not be coaxed into their 
graces, no matter what bribe was held forth. If this 
thing hold good, and I see no valid reason to oppose to 
it, Mary and Ailey must have occupied a very high place 
in the esteem of Mr. and Mrs. O’Meara ; and they did, too, 
much higher than any of those concerned were aware. 

The conversation got to be quite general in its charac- 
ter, and both of the cousins shared an amount of intelli- 
gence and culture that rather astonished their new 
friends. 

It was evident to the lady and gentleman that with all 
their open-mindedness, there was something of a delicate 
nature specially reserved by Mary and Ailey in speak- 
ing of their home and their vicissitudes since landing in 
America. 

“ As thrue as the divil goes about roarin’ an seekin’ who 
he’ll ate, there’s them pack o’ ranters from New Jersey, be- 
ginning” said Kitty, as the sound of voices was heard join- 
ing in something like a funereal dirge. Ailey and Mary 
were not so very polite, although in a strange place, as 
not to laugh outright at the remark of servant Kitty. 
It was not, however, the words she used, so much as the 
energy with which she used them, and the appearance 
of her face, which was quite flushed. 

“ But Kitty,” observed Mrs. O’Meara, “ we must not 
think too hard of these people. Perhaps they are sin- 
cere in what they do, and we must give them credit at 
least for that.” 


172 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ It’s well you saved youself, Ma’am, with all your 
‘ perhaps,’ for how could people like them he sincere, 
least of all that woman,” replied Kitty. 

Just then, the door-bell was rung, and when Kitty an- 
swered the call, a voice was heard making the inquiry : 
“ Plaze, Ma’am, is it here the Rev. Kaiser Nookes lives? ” 

“ Troth an it’s not, Ma’am, God be thanked,” was the 
instant reply. 

Mary and Ailey looked at each other in astonish- 
ment, and both Mr. and Mrs. O’Meara exchanged glances 
which plainly meant, “ Are we deceived in those girls ? ” 

“ An’, maybe’, my good, young woman, you could tell 
me where he lives ? ” 

“ Troth an’ I can ; but it’s sing’lar to hear the loiks o’ 
you askin’ for sich a man.” 

“ Och, an’ it’s God knows, I know little about the man ; 
but it’s a woman as lives with him, that has a daughter 
ailin’, that I wants to see.” 

“ It is her, Ailey dear,” said Mary. “ It is Moll Han- 
ley. 5 ’ 

“ Do you know the person speaking to Kitty ?” inquired 
Mrs. O’Meara. 

“ Oh, yes, Madam, dear,” said Ailey ; “ a good, good 
woman.” 

“ Kitty,” shouted Mr. O’Meara. 

“ Yes, sir,” was the reply. 

“ Ask the woman to come this way, if she pleases.” 

“Will you please step in, Master wants you,” said 
Kitty to the person at the door, quite politely ; and the 
person stepped in. 


The Lost Rosary , 


173 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ The dawn is not distant, 

Nor is the night starless; 

Love is eternal, 

God is still God, and 
His faith shall not fail us; 

Christ is eternal.” 

DEATH OF JENNY CLARKSON. 

“ God save you all kindly,” was Moll Hanley’s salute, 
as she entered the parlor, for it was she indeed, as large 
as life, and before she had time to collect her scattered 
thoughts, Ailey and Mary both sprang forward to meet 
her. 

“ Musha, then God bless us all, but it’s here I find you 
both,” said Moll, accepting the seat handed to her by 
Mr. O’Meara. 

Moll Hanley speedily explained her business. Jenny 
Clarkson had taken suddenly ill, and wished to see her 
mother and sister. Her mother lived as housekeeper 
with Naiser Nookes. • 

“ The Rev. Ebenezer Sookes,” interposed Mrs. O’Meara. 

“ The same, Ma’am, an’ sure it’s the quare names some 
people have.” 

A few minutes sufficed to explain matters fully, and 
nothing could detain Moll Hanley on her mission, when- 
ever she learned that she was near the house she was 
in. search of. 

Rising and thanking the good lady and gentleman for 


174 


The Lost Rosary . 

their kindness in affording her the information she re- 
quired, she took her leave, giving such a look of entreaty 
at Mary and Ailey, not to divulge anything concerning 
Alice McGrain, that meant all she wished to convey. 

“Poor Jenny!” said Mary, when Moll had retired. 
“ Her’s is a sad enough case.” Mr. and Mrs. O’Meara ex- 
pressed their anxiety to know more about the girl, and 
Mary related her story. As she did so, Mr. O’Meara paid 
the most marked attention to every word. “ And that is 
the woman you are living with ?” said Mr. O’Meara. 

“ Yes, sir,” replied Mary. “We had the misfortune to 
he decoyed into a house when we landed,” continued 
Mary, “ which — which had some bad character, I under- 
stand, and we then went to live with Moll Hanley and a 
Mrs. McGrlone.” 

“ Did you remain long in your first boarding-house ? ” 
inquired Mrs. O’Meara. 

“ Just till we found another,” replied Ailey; “ and we 
were not long about that — only about an hour, I think.” 

Mary related, with considerable feeling, her own and 
Ailey’s first experiences in America. During her recital 
the tears often sprang to her eyes, while Ailey held her 
head bowed down as she listened to Mary’s pathetic re- 
cital. 

Mr. and Mrs. O’Meara were evidently much affected, 
not only with all they heard, but with the simple man- 
ner in which the tria]^ of these friendless girls was 
told, from the moment they entered Paddy Farren’s 
house up till the finding of the Lost Rosary. 

“ I still feel unsatisfied,” said the lady, “ about the his- 
tory of that Rosary. I understood you to say that a dear 
friend gave it you,” she added, addressing Mary. 

“ Quite so,” replied Ailey. 

“ And I have a strong suspicion,” said Mr. O’Meara. 
“ that there is a nice little secret connected with that 
same Rosary, and in order to give Mary an opportunity 


175 


The Lost Rosary. 

of making it known to you, if she feels disposed, I shall 
retire. You know,” he continued, addressing his wife, 
“ I have to call over at the new office to leave instruc- 
tions for the men to-morrow morning ; ” saying which, he 
kindly bade Mary and Ailey good evening, and hoped to 
see them often again. 

“ So often,” said Mrs. O’Meara, “ that if Ailey is out of 
a place, and wishes to accept an engagement from me, I 
am ready and willing to have her from this forward.” 

“ I shall be most happy if you prevail upon her,” said 
Mr. O’Meara, as he withdrew. 

“ Iss, Iss,” said little Mary, who comprehended more 
by the appearance of matters, and the tone of the speak- 
ers, than by understanding. “ Ailey comes home,” and 
the dear creature looked up so lovingly in Ailey’s face, 
that she could not resist the impulse of lifting the child 
and imprinting a sweet kiss on its ruby lips. 

A short time sufficed to arrange that Ailey should oc- 
cupy the post of nursery maid and companion to Mrs. 
O’Meara. Mary was consulted in the arrangements, and 
expressed her perfect willingness, especially as she had 
found such warm-hearted friends in the person of Mr. 
and Mrs. O’Meara ; and that a promise had been exacted 
from her to come and see Ailey as often as possible, but, 
especially, never to allow a Sunday evening to pass by 
without a visit. “We sometimes see friends and ac- 
quaintances,” said Mrs. O’Meara ; “ but, as a rule, our Sun- 
day evenings are lively enough with servant Kitty, and 
little Mary and papa, and sometimes one or two of the 
store men, of whom papa is very fond, especially the 
head man in his employment.” 

Mary entered into a history of the Kosary; and not 
only that, but into a history of the greater part of her 
life, which she candidly related to her newly-found 
friend, omitting nothing, not even the position in which 
she stood towards Barney McAuley. 


176 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ And you never lieard of him since your arrival here ?” 
inquired Mrs. O’Meara, with particular interest in all she 
had heard. 

“ Never heard a word about him,” answered Mary. 

“ Well, it does seem strange to me,” said the lady ; “ but 
I feel, somehow, that I must have heard that name, Bar- 
ney McAuley, before now, but under what circumstan- 
ces, or where, I’m sure I can’t tell.” 

Poor Mary’s heart beat almost audibly as she listened 
to every word that fell from the lips of the lady who ad- 
dressed her. 

Ailey, too, had listened with rapt attention to all that 
had been said. 

When leaving, Ailey promised to commence her duties 
early in the week. She had some little preparations to 
make, and would require a few days for that purpose. 

Servant Kitty was very proud when she heard that 
Ailey was coming to live with her. 

“ O, good an’ a gracious, but it’s the fine mistress an’ 
master you’re cornin’ to sarve.” 

“There now, Kitty, that’s enough,” broke in Mrs. 
O’Meara, who had oftentimes before experienced such 
grateful expressions from Kitty. The poor girl had been 
mercifully relieved from a most painful position by her 
mistress, and she had never forgotten the kindness. 

There are few in this world whose hearts are filled 
with a purer gratitude to those who do them an act of 
kindness at any time, but especially in the hour of need, 
than the friendless girls of Ireland. A life’s devotion is 
not considered by them too much to repay such kind- 
ness as Kitty had experienced from her gentle and kind- 
hearted mistress. 

When Mary and Ailey returned home, they found that 
it was not without cause that Moll Hanley had endeav- 
ored to bring the mother and sister of Jenny Clarkson 
to see her. For some days previously the poor girl had 


177 


The Lost Rosary. 

been suffering, but bad managed to appear not so ill as 
sbe really was. Moll’s experience, however, soon detect- 
ed tbe girl’s well-intentioned efforts, and speedily pro- 
cured tbe services of a doctor to attend her. When she 
learned that Moll had not succeeded in finding her 
friends, Jenny felt much worse. 

Moll Hanley was correct as “ to the letter of the law,” 
in telling the poor girl that she had not succeeded in 
finding them ; but she had found out enough to satisfy 
her that if anything serious or fatal happened to the girl, 
the visit of either mother or sister or both would do her 
little good. 

“ It was Kaiser Nookes, himself, I saw,” said Moll to 
Mrs. McGlone ; “ an’ when I delivered my message, he 
went back to some singin’-school, and shortly returned 
with the word that Mrs. and Miss Clarkson were just 
then engaged at evening devotions, an’ couldn’t attend 
to any message.” 

“ What a hard pack they must be,” said Mrs. McGlone. 
“Did they not promise to call an’ see the poor thing?” 

“ Troth, I think Kaiser is the best o’ the lot o’ them,’* 
said Moll. “ He asked the number o’ the door an’ the 
street, an’ I suppose he will call.” 

Mary and Ailey sat by the bedside of the sick girl dur- 
ing the entire night. They proved themselves sisters to 
the lone girl, for they had learned from Moll the ill-suc- 
cess of her mission. Their own kind hearts, however, 
would have shown them their duty in that regard, irre- 
spective of Moll Hanley’s information. 

It was a weary night, and Jenny Clarkson moaned a 
great deal. Towards morning she felt something easier, 
and was astonished to find both Mary and Ailey beside 
her. She thought she had been alone. 

Mary spoke in a low tone to her, telling her not to dis- 
turb herself by speaking, unless she had something par- 
ticular to say. 


12 


178 


The Lost Rosary . 

“ Nothing,” said Jenny ; “ but if it were breakfast time, 
I would like to see a priest.” 

“Certainly, dear girl,” replied Mary; and a messenger 
was quickly despatched for that purpose. 

Meantime, Mary and Ailey maintained their position 
towards the sick girl. In a short time the clergyman ar- 
rived, and spent half an hour in the sick room. Jenny 
appeared much easier, both in mind and body. She con- 
tinued much in the same way for the remainder of the 
day, but as night advanced she became worse. 

Moll Hanley announced her willingness to make an- 
other trial to bring the mother and sister to see her ; but 
Jenny did not wish to give them any trouble on her ac- 
count ; in fact, she preferred not to hear them spoken of, 
but wished to remain “ contented just as she was.” 

“What’s your opinion o’ the poor thing, doctor dear?” 
inquired Moll, when that gentleman was taking his leave 
after a visit. 

“ Well, if she continues as she is till morning,” said 
the doctor, “ she will last through to-morrow ; but, if 
there be any change before then, I’m somewhat doubtful 
of the result. She is very weak at present, and won’t 
hold out long, I’m afraid.” 

“ God help her, poor lonely thing,” said the kind- 
hearted Moll, as she prepared to pay the doctor his fee. 
That gentleman, however, suspected that the person who 
addressed him was paying the money herself, and feel- 
ingly told Moll that he was entitled to do something in 
such a case, when others were doing so much for the 
poor girl. 

“ In that case,” said Moll, “ I won’t refuse your kind- 
ness ; ” and the doctor took his leave, after prescribing 
some unimportant things for his patient, and rather 
proud of himself for having detected the woman’s self- 
sacrificing spirit, and not adding to her burdens. 

The morning came with its bright golden smiles, shed- 


179 


The Lost Rosary. 

ding a rich yellow light on Jenny Clarkson’s bed. The 
clean, white counterpane that covered the spot on which 
she lay, was not whiter than the fair face of the occu- 
pant. 

Jenny Clarkson was dead! A sweet smile seemed 
playing over her features. There was a softness about 
the youthful mouth, and the lips, even in death, retained 
a tinge of red that relieved the marble whiteness of the 
face. 

Out in the city, crowds are hurrying here and there — 
some with light hearts, and gay, laughing faces ; there 
are poor, honest girls hurrying past to avoid notice; 
there are others with fevered brow and heavy hearts, 
who lived like demons through the night, their lips foul 
with blasphemy, and encrusted with their poisonous 
breath. The dress of the latter was -gay and fashiona- 
ble twelve hours ago ; now it is broken, torn and fad- 
ed. Death within the dwelling of Moll Hanley and Mrs. 
McGlone, and living death outside ! 

Which was preferable : that dead innocent girl, with 
the loving smile upon her face, or those of her age with- 
ered with drink and dissipation, young in years, aged 
in crime ; lost forever to virtue ? 

Death for the young has no attractions, at least, for 
the majority of youth; yet they should be taught to 
know its holiness, and to welcome it, rather than fall 
from the high estate of purity. 

Death is not always an evil, even to those who survive. 
The grave is as natural as the cradle. To those without 
Faith, the dissolution of the body and soul must always 
have its terrors. But to those fortified with the Sacra- 
ments of the Church, it is altogether different. The 
pure-minded Christian will often desire a continuance 
of pain and suffering, in order to purify the soul for the 
change it is about to undergo. 

Some such thoughts as these coursed through the 


180 


The Lost Rosary , 

minds of those who sat in the little bed-chamber after 
its late tenant had been laid in the grave, not far from 
the spot adorned with the little headstone, inscribed, 
“ Otjb Little Bbidget.” 

Neither mother nor sister had attended the funeral of 
Jenny Clarkson. They did not even know of her death ; 
and Moll Hanley maintained it did not matter much. 

“ Don’t you remember,” she said, addressing Mrs. Mc- 
Glone, “ how her poor father was left to the care of the 
two strange young men, on board the ship ? Aye, in- 
deed, God help us,” she continued, addressing Mary and 
Ailey, “ them two young men, Barney McAuley and Tim 
Heggarty, God bless them both, attended that poor girl’s 
father.” 

“ Moll Hanley 1 ” called out Mrs. McGlone. “ See ! 
see ! Mary’s quite ill.” 

“ Heaven bless you, my child ! ” cried Moll, springing 
over to where Mary sat. 

“ She has fainted ! ” cried Ailey, who also was as pale as 
death. 

“What is the matter?” said Mrs. McGlone, much 
frightened. 

“ Mary and Barney McAuley are friends,” said Ailey, 
with very considerable effort. 


The Lost Rosary. 


181 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

SINGULARITY OF DREAMS — A LOST LOVER FOUND. 

“ Two dreams alike in every way, 

To be revealed ere break of day; 

If not, they were but misty air, 

Faithless to both our girls so fair.” 

Ailey had been nearly five months in Mr. O’Meara’s 
house, as nurse and companion to the good lady of that 
happy dwelling, when one evening Mary, according to 
her custom, paid Ailey a visit. She was not long arrived 
when she had an opportunity of speaking with her cousin 
in private. 

” I must leave that place, Ailey,” said Mary. “ I have 
borne with its. private annoyances and insults as long as 
I am fit to bear them.” 

“ I was just expecting as much, from what you told 
me last Sunday ; and I approve, dear cousin, of your res- 
olution,” replied Ailey. 

“ From the moment that I obtained that small rise in 
my wages,” Mary continued, “ the rude advances of that 
man, Miller, are positively disgusting. God knows how 
hard it is to put up with all this. None but a base na- 
ture could persecute me so, and I have no alternative 
but to leave. I would not have my ears assailed by the 
aspersions against my country and myself for all the 
place is worth.” 

Mary O’Donnell had just cause of complaint, although 
there were, and are, too many girls who would have on- 


182 


The Lost Rosary. 

ly been too glad to have been in her place. A new over- 
seer had been admitted into the place where Mary was 
employed. He was a Scotchman, who had been many 
years in America ; and before he was three weeks in the 
place he had made himself obnoxious to Mary by his ill- 
timed attentions. He professed his love for her, and his 
desire to “ stand by her.” He got her salary raised a tri- 
fle, and thought he was entitled to act as he did towards 
the friendless girl. At first, Mary was obedient and care- 
ful not to give offence. She was not long allowed to re- 
main ignorant of his evil intentions. As soon as she 
discovered these, she very promptly compelled him to de- 
sist. He did so ; but the peculiarity of his position en- 
abled him, without any risk to himself, to renew his im- 
portunities. This he continued to do, until, finally, Mary 
resolved to throw herself on the mercy of the world 
rather than put up with her persecutor. 

“ We are a great deal better off now than formerly,” 
said Ailey, quite cheerfully. “I have not, as you are 
aware, spent over five dollars of my wages. Mrs. O’- 
Meara is very kind to me, and I am right glad that you 
have resolved to leave that place for good and all.” 

“ As I was always in the habit of keeping Nelly Noonan 
beside me, when arranging the place after the girls 
left, I’m afraid he will be unmanly enough to take re- 
venge on the poor thing, and dismiss her,” said Mary. 

“ I shouldn’t be at all astonished, for such men are 
capable of very mean acts,” replied Ailey; “and you 
should bring her with you, Mary, for I’m fond of that 
poor, friendless little thing.” 

“ That’s just what I had in contemplation,” said her 
cousin. 

“ Well, that’s settled now,” cried Ailey; “ you can .fall 
to, and indulge yourself in making two or three dresses 
for both of us ; Nelly can help you right well, and, as you 
won’t require to be in a hurry to look out for another 


183 


The Lost Rosary. 

situation for a while to come, your chances will be all 
the better ; and now, dear coz, sit over there, near to the 
window, till I tell you a dream I had last night.” 

“ Wait a moment,” said Mary; “that was part of my 
business with you this evening. Let me tell you mine 
first ” 

“ Oh, now, is that fair ? ” asked Ailey. 

“ Quite fair ; for I have heard of persons dreaming at 
the same time and on the same thing, and I want to tell 
mine first,” she added, “ lest there should be any simi- 
larity between them, and then you might ” 

“ Oh, I know what you are going to say,” put in Ailey, 
briskly ; “ well, let us hear ; but, bear in mind, that dreams 
are worthless things, and, as these were Saturday even- 
ing dreams, they are of no use unless they come in true 
before midnight on Sunday.” 

“ On Sunday or Monday,” continued Mary, “ it is all 
one, for I don’t believe in them, although I know that 
some things have happened in dreams that came true af- 
terwards.” 

“ Well, let us hear,” said Ailey. “ I’m all impatience 
till I get telling you mine.” 

“ I was just gone asleep,” commenced Mary, “ for a few 
minutes ” 

Here Ailey burst out laughing. 

“ That’s just what I thought, too ; but how can any 
one tell how long they were sleeping ? ” 

“ I know well,” replied Mary, “ for I awoke soon after- 
wards, and found I had not been an hour gone to bed. 
But let me proceed. I thought I was walking down the 
old loaning which leads from the graveyard at home, 
when I met you and Tim coming along, walking about 
a yard ap&rt. He looked downcast, and you were busy 
laughing. Now, thinks I to myself, Ailey is not acting 
fairly towards Tim ; I can judge so much by his looks. 
Then he came nearer to you, and you passed over to the 


184 


The Lost Rosary. 

opposite side. He stood awhile ; then you went forward. 
He appeared irresolute still ; I could see by him that he 
felt inclined to turn, and allow you to go on by your- 
self. Now, thinks I, if he comes this way I will hurry 
on and surprise him into a good temper. Then you 
stopped for an instant or two, and I also halted. A 
strange feeling came over me. I knew we had been in 
America, and somehow believed this was your first meet- 
ing, when suddenly there arose up a thin mist between 
you and Tim, and it grew thicker every moment, until I 
lost sight of you. As the mist increased, I could see 
that Tim wavered, and suddenly darted after you. In a 
moment he was lost to my view, and I called after him. 
I felt a choking sensation in my throat, and suddenly 
awoke, rubbing my eyes in the effort to look after both 
of you. There now, that was my dream ; let me hear 
yours.” 

Ailey’s head was bent, and she seemed utterly lost in 
reflection. 

“ I am waiting to hear yours,” added Mary, not half 
satisfied with the appearance of her cousin. 

Ailey rallied herself a good deal, but there was a pale- 
ness remained in her face that pained Mary to look at. 

“Well, as you said, Ailey, I’m all impatience to hear 
your dream.” 

Ailey still kept silent. 

“ O, very well, cousin,” continued Mary, “ if you think 
that’s fair, I’m sure I need not trouble myself about your 
bit of a dream. What are they after all but a bubble in 
the air, or something of that sort.” 

Ailey raised her eyes to those of her cousin, and as she 
did so, Mary saw that they were suffused with tears. 
She felt grieved, as she knew there must have been 
something in her dream that annoyed Ailey; or, that 
her rehearsal of it had awakened thoughts perhaps of 
too tender a nature in the girl’s mind. In fact, she did 


185 


The Lost Rosary. 

not exactly know what to think, and so felt worried, and 
displayed a little temper for a few minutes, either acted 
at the moment in order to arouse Ailey, or natural it may 
have been. It would be a blessed world if no greater 
evil ever happened than the betrayal of that bit of tem- 
per on the part of Mary O’Donnell. It was like a rose 
tree shaking its flowers in obedience to a contrary breeze 
and shedding the full treasure of its odors on the fra- 
grant air. 

Mary arose from her seat and was about to leave, when 
Ailey asked her to remain for a little. The tremulous 
tone of her cousin’s voice made Mary half angry and 
half ashamed at herself. 

“ I know you are anxious to hear my dream, as I have 
heard yours,” began Ailey in a slow voice. 

“ Of course I was anxious to hear it,” replied Mary ; 
“ but if it occasions you any pain, I would rather you 
deferred telling me till some other time.” 

“ No pain in the least,” answered Ailey; ‘‘but I just 
thought that I saw a strange resemblance between your 
dream and my own.” 

“ What if you did ? ” added Mary, whose voice also be- 
trayed a little tremulousness, for she did not like that 
the two dreams should resemble each other. She could 
give no reason for her feelings, nor did she care to ex- 
amine the question to find why she disliked the fact of 
their resemblance, but she knew she would have felt bet- 
ter pleased if it had not been so. 

“ I thought,” commenced Ailey, “ that I was alone, and 
walking in the same loaning that leads from the grave- 
yard, when suddenly I saw Tim coming towards me. I 
did not just care to meet him face to face, least he might 
have supposed that somehow I knew of his presence 
there, and wished to put myself in his way, so I turned 
suddenly around with my back towards him. I could 
hear his feet as he made to overtake me. Then his ap- 


186 


The Lost Rosary. 

proacli seemed to slacken, and I walked along very slow- 
ly, when the sound of his footsteps died away altogether. 
I turned, and saw him with his hands stretch ed out toward 
me. I wondered what it could mean, and began to move 
toward where he stood. As I did so, a mist sprang up 
between us, and got thicker and thicker every moment. 
I did not look upon this as very unusual, but kept walk- 
ing on to where I believed he was still standing. Then 
I began to grope and search about, and finally called out 
his name. There was no answer, and I called again 
much louder. Faintly the sound of a voice was borne 
to my ears, and my name was pronounced as if with a 
dying gasp. I became quite faint, and swooned away. 
I lay in that state for some time, quite unconscious, and 
when I opened my eyes I was lying across my mother’s 
grave. The mist had cleared away; the birds were 
singing in their clearest melody, but there was not a hu- 
man being within sight of me. I felt that my body gave 
a shiver as I arose, and in my efforts to get upon my feet 
I awoke, while a cold, clammy sweat overspread my 
face.” 

“ Well, yes, I acknowledge there is some resemblance,” 
said Mary; “but, as you yourself said, Saturday night 
dreams are of no consequence, nor Sunday’s, for all that, 
I’ll be bound.” 

“ Perhaps you’re right,” chimed in Ailey ; “ we will slip 
into the parlor ; I know Mrs. O’Meara would like to talk 
to you a little. She was dull to-day, and inquired about 
you, and what time you would likely be over.” 

In passing across the hall, Mary observed Mr. O’Meara 
engaged in speaking with a man at the hall door, appar- 
ently giving him instructions concerning something of 
importance. 

The stranger kept looking at Mary and Ailey, as the 
former held her cousin by the arm, just at the parlor 
door. 


The Lost Rosary. 187 

“ Oh, only our nursery-maid and her friend,” said Mr. 
O’Meara, who continued his conversation. 

When Mary and Ailey entered the parlor, little Mary 
O’Meara came out, and, running up beside her papa, 
caught the stranger by the hand. 

“ Oo just come in now, an’ take tea,” said the child, 
who was rewarded for her kind invitation, with a warm 
kiss. 

“ You may think it strange, sir,” said the stranger ; “ but 
may I inquire the names of those two young ladies ? ” 

“ Well, upon my word, Tim, I did think you were pay- 
ing more attention to the young women than to my or- 
ders. Their names, I understand, are Ailey and Mary 
O’Donnell. One of them lives here with me and 
Mrs. ” 

“ Oh ! did ever heaven see the likes o’ this ! ” exclaimed 
Tim Heggarty, for sure enough, it was he indeed ; one of 
the most faithful servants attached to Mr. O’Meara. 

“ The likes of what ? ” asked Mr. O’Meara ; but Tim 
had dashed rather rudely into the parlor with little Mary 
in his arms. 

The mother sprang forward for her child, believing 
that something had happened to it, and observing a sort 
of wildness in Tim’s eyes, eagerly inquired what was 
wrong ? 

“ Nothing specially wrong,” said Mr. O’Meara, who had 
followed Tim ; “ but so far as I can judge, there are some 
strange things happening about here these few weeks 
past, especially since Ailey came to live with us.” 

Ailey O’Donnell looked up in her master’s face, and 
Mary looked at Mrs. O’Meara. The latter did not com- 
prehend her husband ; but she was quick enough to per- 
ceive by the twinkle of his kindly eye that nothing seri- 
ous had happened. 

Tim glided towards Ailey, but the girl’s modesty for- 
bade her to look at a stranger, especially in presence of 
her master and mistress. 


188 


The Lost Rosary. 

Mary looked around her, but failed to comprehend the 
position affairs were taking. 

“ Ailey,” said Mr. O’Meara, “ I think I had better intro- 
duce you to Mr. Heggarty.” 

“ Dear Ailey ! ” cried Tim, as he lifted the beloved girl 
in his arms, and kissed her several times. 

Mary, as pale as death, had sprung to her feet, while 
the tears rushed to her eyes. 

“ And, cousin Mary !” exclaimed Tim, half lifting Ailey 
across the floor. 

Impudently enough, Tim brought back the color to 
Mary’s face, by subjecting her to the same treatment 
that Ailey had undergone. 

“ Oo won’t get tea,” roared out little Mary O’Meara, 
which caused a general roar of laughter. 

“ How changed you are in your appearance, Tim,” 
were the first words uttered by Ailey, whose heart flut- 
tered as she spoke, and gave a tremor to her voice. 

“ In appearance only,” said Tim. 

“ And now, when I have had time to draw my breath, 
how is your friend, Barney McAuley ? ” asked Ailey 
while Mary’s eyes were rivetted on Tim. 

The good fellow turned towards Mary, and offering 
his right hand to her, and the left to Ailey, which neces- 
sitated the crossing of his arms. 

“ Barney McAuley,” said Tim, “ was at Church with 
me on last Sunday, having come into town the previous 
evening, an’ in troth he’s in as good health as the pair o’ 
you could wish him. I can’t say,” added Tim, “ that he’s 
in the best o’ spirits, for that would be a lie, Mistress 
O’Meara,” he said, addressing that lady; “but if he only 
thought that Tim Heggarty was in company this blessed 
evening with Mary and Ailey O’Donnell, troth it’s on his 
head the poor fellow would dance a jig with joy.” 


The Lost Rosary. 


189 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

A PLEASANT PARTY — TIM HEGGARTY MAKES FREE — HE 
MEETS OLD FRIENDS. 

“ A drive in the cool fresh air, 

To drive away all care, 

When friends do meet, 

Each other to greet, 

There’s nothing can compare.” 

It would be almost impossible to describe the unal- 
loyed happiness of the party at Mr. O’Meara’s house on 
that Sunday evening. Mr. O’Meara suggested that Tim 
should get out the large carriage, and give the whole of 
them a good drive through the city. Little Mary would 
remain in charge of the servant, and Mrs. O’Meara would 
join them also. Mary O’Meara insisted on accompany- 
ing Ailey, and Tim obtained leave for her to come. 

“ The work’s as good as done, sir,” said Tim Heggarty, 
with a sort of laughing chuckle in his throat, and a 
bloom on his cheek as rich as the color of a rosy Iris h 
apple. 

Mrs. O’Meara set about arranging her dress for the 
drive out, and was somewhat disappointed at the dilato- 
ry movements of Mary and Ailey. 

“You seem rather slow at your preparations, Ailey,” 
said Mr. O’Meara ; “ and your cousin, too, does not seem 
to care much about our out-going,” he added. 

“ Pardon me, sir,” said Mary, with her native modesty f 
“We are not used to carriage driving, and ” 

“ Oh, I see,” said Mrs. O’Meara, laughing right hearti- 


190 


The Lost Rosary. 

ly ; “ we are in America, Ailey, where mistress and ser- 
vant, especially a good servant like our Ailey, seldom 
make any particular distinction. You will offend Mr. 
O’Meara and myself, if you and Mary do not enjoy your- 
selves.” 

Just then, Tim drove up to the door — the turn-out 
was gay and dashing — with a large family carriage, and a 
pair of handsome chestnut horses in capital order for a 
spanking drive. 

The animals knew Tim’s touch of the reins and the 
sound of his merry voice right well. 

A few minutes saw them all seated comfortably, and 
Tim seemed to have lost all idea of his former decorum. 
He turned around again and again to look at Ailey and 
Mary, and even had the hardihood to make some remarks 
to them about the night they pitched him into the bog- 
hole, and blind Darby roaring and laughing, as if he 
could witness the whole fun. 

To do Tim justice, he was guarded enough to indulge 
in these things only at certain places, where the quiet- 
ness of the place permitted him to enjoy himself in his 
pardonable freedom. 

Mrs. O’Meara was happier than she had been for many 
a day. She could not resist a little banter at Ailey’s ex- 
pense. “ He’s a fine fellow, is Tim,” said the lady. 

“ I don’t think that America has mended his manners, 
ma’am,” replied Ailey. 

Tim’s quick sense of hearing enabled him to catch the 
meaning of Ailey’s remarks. “ Faith, it’s the improved 
boy I am,” he shouted out ; “ but not half so fat as Barney 
McAuley.” 

“ That's intended for you, Mary, I presume,” said Mr. 
O’Meara. 

“Very likely, sir,” answered the girl. 

“ But he won’t be as fat this day twelvemonth, I’ll go 
bail,” laughed Tim, as he gave loose rein to the horses, 
and sped along in gay style. 


191 


The Lost Rosary. 

Mary intended to keep her mind to herself respecting 
the whereabouts of Barney, until she would have a quiet 
opportunity of talkiDg to Tim and Ailey;but she felt 
her heart getting lighter every moment. The drive 
through the cool, fresh air of the evening, the light mood 
and gay spirits of those around her, and, above all, the 
kind manner of Mr. and Mrs. O’Meara, enabled her to 
throw off some of her reserve, and without giving the 
matter further thought, she boldly inquired of Tim where 
Barney was located. 

Tim half turned his head to answer, and suddenly 
jerked it back again, but not till Ailey had caught one 
glance at the roguish expression of his eyes. 

Tim didn’t answer. 

Mary blushed a perfect scarlet. 

“ Miss O’Donnell is speaking to you,” cried out Mrs. 
O’Meara. 

“ And what is she saying, ma’am ? ” inquired Tim, with 
a tell-tale expression in his face, that plainly indicated 
that he did not require to ask that question. 

“ Tell him, Mary,” urged Ailey. 

Mary repeated her question, not in so loud a tone as at 
first, yet Tim heard every word she said. 

“ Oh, an’ indeed, but it’s himself that’s the thrivin’ fel- 
low,” said Tim, turning almost completely round in the 
driver’s seat, so that he might have a full view of the 
whole party ; “ an’ never a bit of a rollin’ stone is there 
about him, for he’s in the one place since ever he came 
to this country, an’ that’s in a place called Port Jervis.” 

Had Tim said Affghanistan it would have been all one 
to Mary. She was like all others newly landed in Amer- 
ica ; and Tim, like many a would-be wiser man, thought 
that Mary should have known as much about the coun- 
try as he himself knew. 

Mary had lost her bashfulness for the evening, now 
that she had broken the ice by asking Tim a question, 


192 


The Lost Rosary. 

and finding that the gayety increased on all sides (chiefly 
in consequence of Tim’s exuberance of spirits), she scru- 
pled not to speak in such a manner as betokened her 
particular liking for Barney McAuley. 

It is just possible that Mr. and Mrs. O’Meara may have 
observed an unaccountable silence on the part of Ailey, 
and so attempted to keep up the conversation. 

Ailey did not look half so well as when they had start- 
ed, and she had all the appearance of being just then en- 
gaged in thinking on some particular subject. 

Probably Tim was quick enough to observe this, as he 
pulled up under the shade of some fine trees, and asked 
Mr. O’Meara should he give the horses a rest. 

That gentleman nodded, and Tim immediately dis- 
mounted. Bight under the driver’s seat was a snug lit- 
tle recess for storing away odds and ends. Tim’s leave 
to pull up meant something more than breathing time 
for the horses. With a knowing alacrity the good-heart- 
ed fellow drew forth a small carriage basket, but his 
carelessness in causing a jingling of glass brought a gen- 
tle reprimand from Mrs. O’Meara. 

“ Faith, ma’am, it wasn’t me that put that basket into 
its place,” replied Tim, sharply, and with a good-natured 
nod at Mr. O’Meara. 

This was a home-blow to the lady herself, who hur- 
riedly had conveyed the little basket to the carriage at 
starting. 

Tim showed Mary and Ailey that he had improved in 
his manners since the night that poor Corny had paid 
him the compliment in the barn. With a particular 
gentility, that was well assumed for the occasion, he 
handed a glass of wine to Mrs. O’Meara, and then did 
the same to Mary and Ailey. 

“ Will you, sir, take a glass of white wine ? ” asked Tim, 
addressing Mr. O’Meara. 

That gentleman assented, and told Tim to take the 
same himself. 


193 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ All right, sir,” replied Tim, whose grimace told plain- 
ly enough that the white wine bore a strong appearance 
to something very like Irish whiskey. 

Alley regained her usual appearance. She had bat- 
tled bravely with whatever thoughts had tormented her 
mind during the past hour, and had conquered them. 
Now she was as gay as the rest of the company, and the 
drive back was even pleasanter than in the earlier part 
of the evening. 

Little Mary O’Meara had fallen asleep on Ailey’s knee, 
and that small circumstance gave a cue to Tim to keep 
up his pleasantry. He was very anxious to know if she 
would like to have a carriage of her own, and if she 
would take as much care of her own children as she was 
then taking of other people’s ? 

“ Tim,” cried out Mrs. O’Meara. 

“ Yes, ma’am, I’m listening,” was the answer. 

“ Well, just you keep listening for awhile.” 

And Tim did so. They were now re-entering the city, 
and Tim behaved, as he afterwards alleged, “like a gen- 
tleman.” 

Arrived safely back, a pleasant hour was spent, and 
Ailey obtained leave to accompany Mary to Moll Han- 
ley’s. 

“ I suppose, Tim, you will be too busily engaged to- 
morrow to be in at work ? ” inquired Mr. O’Meara. 

“ Well, sir,” said Tim, “ there are one or two things to 
be done in the morning ; but afterwards, with your per- 
mission, I should like not only to-morrow to myself, but 
the day following.” 

“ All right, Tim,” replied his master ; “ your holidays 
have been few heretofore. Make your own time, and I 
will be quite satisfied.” 

Mrs. O’Meara shook hands very warmly with both 
Mary and Ailey. She did not attempt to conceal her 
joy at the unexpected meeting of the friends that even- 

13 


194 


The Lost Rosary. 

ing, and hoped that in future Tim would he more guard- 
ed in speaking of “ other people’s children.” Tim prom- 
ised amendment, and he and Mary and Ailey took their 
departure. 

When they had gone, Mr. O’Meara said to his wife : 
“Well, that is about one of the strangest meetings I ever 
beheld in all my life. Here is poor Ailey O’Donnell, so 
long in our house, and Tim all the time working away 
in the store as cheerful as possible, but still with the 
appearance of some little cankering care hanging over 
his mind. Isn’t it strange ? ” 

“Very strange, indeed,” replied Mrs. O’Meara. “But 
to my mind, the strangest thing of all was the accidental 
meeting with Mary and Ailey that Sunday evening, at 
the grave of our little Bridget.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” replied her husband. “I liked both 
girls from the first moment I saw them ; and I took a 
sudden liking to Tim in the same manner, and have 
never had cause to regret either. Do you believe in first 
impressions ? ” 

“ Well, not exactly,” replied Mrs. O’Meara. “ For in- 
stance, the first time I saw you, I thought you were 
about the ” 

But Mr. O’Meara had retired before the sentence was 
finished. He was speedily followed by Mrs. O’Meara, 
who no doubt insisted that, as she had been asked a fair 
question, that she was entitled to give a fair and unpre- 
judiced answer. 

When Tim landed in Moll Hanley’s, with Mary and 
Ailey, one on each arm, that good woman stared with 
“ both her eyes,” and then rubbed her optics, to see if she 
still retained her sense of seeing. Tim endeavored to 
assume an appearance of gravity, as he hoped by that 
means to impose on his quondam acquaintance. Mary 
and Ailey both indulged themselves in peals of laughter, 
which so changed the usual appearance of their faces, 


The Lost Rosary. 195 

that Moll Hanley’s doubts increased every moment, as 
to whether her eyes were not deceiving her. 

“ A very good evening, ma’am,” said Tim, advancing 
with his outstretched hand to Moll. 

“ A very good evening indeed, sir, thanks be to God,” 
was the reply. 

“ Don’t you know me, Moll Hanley? ” was the next re- 
mark made by Tim. 

There was a steady look by Moll for a few moments. 

“ Musha, praises be to Heaven, but it’s yourself, Tim, 
dear ! ” and Moll held forth both her hands. Tim grasped 
them warmly, and in that instant the good fellow fully 
comprehended the kindness of Moll Hanley to the poor 
friendless girls. 

“ I had a glass of white wine this evening,” said Tim, 
“ an’ by the powers o’ war, Moll Hanley, we’ll have an- 
other.” 

Mary and Ailey discountenanced the proposal, but Tim 
told them to give themselves no trouble. Moll readily 
enough consented, if Tim would wait till Mrs. McGlone 
came in. 

Tim consented, and had not long to wait till he had 
the pleasure of beholding his old fellow-passenger. 

That was a happy meeting ! 

Still Ailey felt ill at ease; something disturbed her 
mind. At length she mustered courage to tell her 
dream, even in the presence of Tim himself. The tears 
streamed down Moll Hanley’s cheeks with pure roguery 
and delight. 

“ What a simpleton you are, Ailey, to be sure,” said the 
kind-hearted Moll ; “ don’t you see that it was bound to 
come true, as it did ? What was the mist, but the thin 
‘ petition ’ that divided you an’ Tim since you went to 
Mr. O’Meara’s to live. He was near you occasionally, 
and you were near him, and neither of you knew it.” 

“ But the graveyard ? ” suggested Mary. 


196 


The Lost Rosary. 

“Till death do us part! ” replied Mrs. McGlone, seeing 
that Moll was somewhat nonplussed at Mary’s words. 

“ O jabers 1 what I would give for a piper ! ” roared out 
Tim, as he heard the interpretation of the dream so sat- 
isfactorily given. 

Now it must be confessed that both Mary and Ailey 
felt annoyed at these dreams. When the nervous system 
has been severely tried it is always so ; and who that has 
faithfully followed the fortunes of these girls will deny 
that they had been sorely tried, — that they had passed 
through a very trying ordeal, both Mary and Ailey. It 
is not to be wondered at, then, that tears of pure joy 
sprang into Ailey’s eyes. As for Mary, she felt ashamed 
to say that she also had felt troubled in mind, not so 
much at the dream as at the similarity of hers with 
All ey’s. She refrained, however, from mentioning that cir- 
cumstance, and was glad that Ailey did the same, lest 
she should thereby lay herself open to some banter at 
the hands of Moll and Tim. 

Yes ; it was a pleasant evening, indeed ; and many were 
the stories told and the inquiries made. Tim listened 
with intense interest to the rehearsal of the death of 
Mary’s father and mother. His heart was somewhat 
bowed as he learned the history of all that the girls had 
passed through, yet he maintained that he could see the 
hand of God visible in the whole thing. Nothing gave 
him so much pleasure as the relation of the incident by 
which Mary and Ailey had come under the care of Moll 
Hanley and Mrs. McGlone. To the astonishment of alb 
he related how Paddy Farren had been sent to prison, 
only a few weeks ago, for an attempt to rob and other- 
wise injure a young woman and her little brother, who 
had been induced to take up their quarters in his place. 

At a late hour Tim took his departure, promising to 
return about noon next day. He kissed Ailey when 
leaving, much to the assumed annoyance of Moll Hanley, 
who bid him Get out or she would show him the door.” 


The Lost Rosary. 


197 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

MEETING OF MARY AND BARNEY — A PLEASANT NIGHT 
OF IT. 

“ But the night is fair, 

And everywhere 
A warm, soft vapor fills the air, 

And distant sounds seem near.” 

Before noon next day, Tim, in company with Ailey 
and Mary, were on their way hound for Port Jervis. This 
was the first opportunity that the friends had of speak- 
ing, as it were, in private ; and yet they had little, if 
anything, to say that might not have been said in pub- 
lic; at least, before such friends as Mr. and Mrs. O’Meara, 
Moll Hanley and Mrs. McGlone. 

“ And now that I have time to ask you, Tim Heggarty, 
how does it come that you dropped off corresponding 
with those you left behind ? ” inquired Ailey. 

Tim was certainly taken aback by the question. He 
was of opinion that he and Barney had just cause of 
complaint on that head, and that the fault lay with Mary 
and Ailey. 

“ Well,” says Tim, “ that’s about the coolest question 
that I have heard proposed this many a day. It was 
just the very first thing I intended to talk about after 
the shock I received, when speaking to my boss, Mr. 
O’Meara. I just thought that in consequence of the 
troubles both o’ you passed through, that it might not 
be decent to introduce such a subject just then. But 
are you really serious ? ” asked Tim. 


198 


The Lost Rosary. 

“Are we serious, Tim? Is that what you ask? ” said 
Mary. “ Well, yes, God knows there is nothing to jest 
about in the like of that ; at least, I think so.” 

“ It does seem rather strange to me,” said Tim. “ But 
finding that both of you are serious, we will defer any 
further talk upon the matter till we see Barney. In fact, 
neither of us have much explanation to offer. We both 
continued quite regular in our correspondence, till we 
got tired of waiting.” 

“ Precisely our own case,” said Ailey. “ But our pa- 
tience was more sorely tried than yours. Poor aunt 
Biddy used often to inquire, ‘ was there no word ? ’ Of 
course we did not attempt to deceive her, although we 
might have framed something like a letter from Ameri- 
ca.” 

Tim was silent for a few minutes. “ Well, well,” he 
said, at length, “ who knows, old girl,” holding out his 
hand to Ailey, “ we may all have happy and pleasant 
days hereafter; ” then shaking Mary by the hand, “ and 
as for Barney,” he continued, “ a truer fellow isn’t on the 
continent of America. Many a dollar he has spent com- 
ing to see me, when he might just as well have remained 
at home, for all the comfort that I could give him. He 
still continued to believe that as I lived in New York, 
that maybe I might meet with some one landing here 
from Magheramore, or near the old place at home.” 

The time sped on pleasantly enough until our joyful 
party reached Port Jervis. Tim knew the ground well, 
and so had no difficulty in finding out the place in which 
Barney McAuley resided. Barney was out just then, 
having gone to Middletown in the morning. “ Boss ” in- 
vited Tim and Mary and Ailey to take a walk over the 
farm, and that probably they would see Barney on his 
home coming. 

Tim and the girls consented, and enjoyed their ramble 
to their hearts’ content. Mary and Ailey, for the first 


199 


The Lost Bosary. 

time since their arrival in America, saw the beauties of 
the country. They were delighted as they wandered 
through the vineries, and their guide was exceedingly 
attentive to them. He pulled fruit of all kinds to treat 
them, and as he was very fond of Barney, did his best to 
show to Barney’s friends how much he thought of him. 

Presently, a man was seen coming along the road, driv- 
ing a horse and wagon. 

“ That’s Barney, if I ain’t mistaken,” said the master. 
“You just stop here, and I’ll send him straight along,” 
saying which he went toward the house. 

At a turn in the road, the horse and wagon were con- 
cealed for a few minutes. 

“ Now, I’ll tell you what,” said Tim, who felt as light- 
hearted as ever he did in all his life, “ I’ll stretch myself 
across towards the house, and let you two remain here 
just as you are. Barney knows Moll Hanley and Mrs. 
McGlone, and I’ll just tell him that they came out here 
with some word from Ireland. Keep your ears open, an’ 
when he comes in here, don’t be in too big a hurry, you 
know, to lift up your heads,” saying which, Tim depart- 
ed. 

Mary’s head was, indeed, bent in thought. She was 
something paler from the moment Barney had appeared 
in view. She could not doubt, seeing how Tim had re- 
ceived them, but that Barney McAuley’s heart was as 
true as ever. It must be acknowledged that Mary was 
glad, however, to have the proof of Barney’s steadfast- 
ness to his first love before she had the pleasure of see- 
ing him. Now that she had that proof in seeing Tim, 
and learning many things from him, she wished that it 
had been Barney who came to see her, instead of Ailey 
and Mary O’Donnell coming to see Barney McAuley. 

This was a very small weakness on the part of Mary. 
It was just the least little tinge of pride, and — well, 
there’s no use moralizing on the private thoughts of 


200 


The Lost Rosary. 

« 

Mary O’Donnell. There were many worse in the world, 
perhaps few better, but then Mary did not know as 
much. 

“ There’s Tim and Barney coming this way,” said Ailey, 
who was peeping out among the branches, with an arch, 
sly look about her, nearly approaching to that of an 
eavesdropper. Tim was first to enter the vinery. He 
was evidently struggling hard to keep his features as 
rigid as possible, but it was a hard task, as was evident 
by his attempt to find something to laugh at, even the 
most trivial circumstance, such as tripping among some 
entangled leaves. Ailey had her face toward the en- 
trance, and was standing, while Mary sat with her back 
in the same direction ; clear as a dew drop newly fallen 
on a rose leaf, a tear stood in Mary’s eye, while a smile 
of ineffable happiness wreathed her handsome mouth. 
Her lips were gently apart, and her simple heart fluttered 
like a surprised bird. It was no wonder. In that in- 
stant or two, Mary' O’Donnell’s quick intellect had passed 
in review the whole scenes of suffering through which 
she and Ailey had passed ; the sorrow and temptations 
both had endured since the happy time when last she 
looked on faithful Barney. 

“ Two of our friends, all the way from — from — New 
York,” said Tim, with a very fair attempt at acting. 

“ A hundred thousand welcomes,” said Barney, as he 
stretched forth his hand to Ailey. Ailey’s hand was 
given with a languid carelessness that nonplussed Bar- 
ney. The place was shaded, and Barney peered into the 
face of Ailey, not doubting Tim’s word as to the visitors 
who had honored him with a call. 

Barney looked at Tim, then again at Ailey. Tim’s 
lips kept twitching at a strange rate. Ailey’s head was 
still bowed. 

“Don’t you know your old friend, Moll Hanley? ” said 
Ailey. 


201 


The Lost Bosary. 

At the sound of Ailey’s voice, Mary turned her head 
and rose from her seat. Barney gave a glance from 
Ailey to Mary. He seemed dissatisfied, and looked again 
at Tim, but the latter was crunching some leaves in his 
mouth. 

At a bound, Barney sprang forward towards Mary, 
and grasping her somewhat roughly by the arm, he 
turned her right round, and the smile that met his face 
revealed the whole plot. 

“Mary, Mary, is it possible, my long lost love!” cried 
the young man, and in a moment his strong arms encir- 
cled the waist of the half-fainting girl. At that moment 
Ailey was at his side, and the former languid hand now 
tightly grasped the hand of honest Barney McAuley. 

For a minute or two there was a dead silence at that 
meeting of friends. Tim laughed heartily, and for the 
time being, Barney had forgotten that his cousin tried 
to play him a trick. 

Mary complimented Barney on his fine appearance. 
Barney scarcely heeded her. He had a regular cate- 
chism of questions to ask her. Ailey perceived his anx- 
iety, and told him “ all in good time.” 

There were not many words spoken, but, on the whole, 
it was a happy meeting,— so happy, that long-parted 
friends were satisfied to look upon each other, and think 
of the past. 

“ O, thank Heaven for this happy meeting ! ” cried Bar- 
ney, from the fulness of his heart. “ This morning, on 
going out on business for Boss, or Bosh, as I used to call 
him,” he said, addressing Mary, “ I felt so light-hearted 
that I couldn’t account for it, no matter how I turned 
the matter over in my mind. At last, I cracked my 
whip, and said to myself, Tim Heggarty’s a blackguard, 
if he hasn’t got some news for both of us from home. 
Then I began to hum a snatch of an air to myself, an,’ 
for a while, I kept wonderin’ in my own mind, where the 


202 


The Lost Rosary. 

devil’s this I heard that old tune, when, hurroo, I be- 
thought myself of the night when Blind Darby was seat- 
ed on his throne at the dance in your father’s barn, 
Mary.” 

“ God rest him, an’ the ould woman by his side,” said 
Tim. 

“ Faith an’ there’s some unlooked-for joy on the way 
before me, an’ that, too, before Barney McAuley goes to 
bed this blessed night, I said to myself. But it’s little I 
thought of seein’ two o’ the best girls in America, that’s 
what it is ; an’ come now, Tim, ould times, boy, once 
more restored, let us get inside the house an’ see if 
there’s as much in this bit o’ the New World as will make 
us happy for an hour or two.” 

Our new-made party retired into the dwelling-house 
of Barney’s master. Barney introduced his friends, at 
least the female portion of them, and “ Boss” was quick 
enough to perceive how matters stood. If he did not at 
once understand them all, both Tim and Barney, the lat- 
ter especially, took good care to make known to him 
the position that all parties had held toward each other 
long ago. It was quite evident that Barney McAuley 
had speedily arrived at the determination of making “ a 
night of it.” His master was an open-hearted, honest 
American farmer, who, at an early date, appreciated the 
faithful services of Barney McAuley. There were two 
other Irish servants engaged on the same farm ; engaged, 
too, in consequence of Barney’s integrity, — very often a 
recommendation, when those who are the cause of it are 
ignorant of the results of their own good behavior. An 
Irish piper was secured, although Barney McAuley had 
five miles to go, to where the musician lived. He yoked 
a pony to a buggy in a few minutes, and asked Mary to 
accompany him. Mary consented, if Ailey and Tim ac- 
companied them. Ailey was tired, at least she said so, 
and Tim thought the buggy too small for four. 


203 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ Quite right,” said Barney, as he forced Mary into the 
seat beside himself. “ An hour and a-half,” cried Bar- 
ney, as he darted away. 

It is very probable that Barney and Mary held a con- 
versation as he drove along the road. He was back at 
the appointed time, however, and had the prize he went 
for along with him. 

By the time he came back, a few of the servants, or 
more properly speaking, “ help,” from adjoining farms 
had gathered into the house, and in a short time were 
arranging with each other as to the best method of en- 
tertaining Barney McAuley, and his newly arrived 
friends. Mirth and jollity reigned supreme. 

Let them enjoy themselves as best they may. If ever 
long-divided friends were entitled to a bit of fun it was 
Barney McAuley and Tim Heggarty, in company with 
Mary and Ailey O’Donnell. They had much to talk 
about in the past, and hopes to forecast in the future, 
sorrow to lament, explanations to offer, plans to arrange, 
and a few, just a very few, visions of comfort and happi- 
ness to indulge in before they were realized. A deep- 
heaved sigh escaped from Barney at times as he saw the 
wonderful development of his faith and love — compan- 
ions of his toil by night and day. The same feeling of 
thankfulness pervaded all four, and further than that 
knowledge it is not fair for us to seek. 


204 


The Lost Rosary . 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

MARRIAGE OP THE REV. EBENEZER SOOKES TO HIS IN- 
TENDED WIFE’S DAUGHTER — A BREACH OF PROMISE 

CASE. 

“ Marriages are made in heaven, 

From which place all joys are given; 

But here is one of earthly make, 

And not for pure love’s only sake.” 

A few evenings only had passed when a crowd had 
gathered near to Mr. O’Meara’s. The occasion was a 
wedding between the Rev. Ebenezer Sookes and “ Helen” 
Clarkson. The “ momentous question” which the rev. 
gentleman was so often on the point of putting to his 
housekeeper, Mrs. Clarkson, remained unspoken, till one 
evening, in the absence of her mother, the Rev. Ebenezer, 
in the fulness of his heart, and guided by what he pro- 
fanely urged to be a pure spirit, spoke the question to 
Nelly. The “ pure spirit” that actuated Mr. Sookes might 
have been found in the coaxing ways of Nelly, and the 
slight disparagements that dutiful daughter cast upon 
her lonely parent. 

Miss Longbow mixed with the crowd, and, wonderful 
to relate, spoke feelingly, and even kindly, to Mrs. Clark- 
son, who was also there. Some of those present were re- 
joicing at the happy nuptials of the minister and his 
housekeeper’s daughter; others were present to shout 
themselves hoarse with indignity at the disgraceful con- 
duct, as they styled it, of a young woman marrying a 
man old enough to be her father. 

Nelly’s mother, finding out what was soon to take 
place, left her situation, as her feelings would not per- 


205 


The Lost Rosary. 

mit lier to mix cogniac and Oolong for a man who was 
so forgetful of his promises. “ But I’ll make him re- 
member them yet — that I will,” said Mrs. C. to Miss Long- 
bow. 

“ And make him pay for his forgetfulness,” said the 
outraged maiden lady, with as little anger visible as pos- 
sible in the tone of her voice. 

“ Git out o’ this wid ye,” said a policeman coming into 
the midst of the crowd, and bestowing a look of special 
recognition on Mrs. Clarkson and her companion, Miss 
Longbow. 

“ Move aside, I tell yees,” continued the man of peace. 
“ You wouldn’t have the poor old man to commit thing- 
amy, wud ye, by marryin’ the half o’ the ould maids and 
widders as were runnin’ him on to his ruin ? ” 

The crowd slowly dispersed, and as Miss Longbow cast 
a withering look at the window blinds, she muttered 
something half audibly, which made the “ brute of a po- 
liceman” grin as if there wasn’t an unhappy creature in 
the world. 

About a month after the marriage of his neighbor, Mr. 
O’Meara came in one evening, and as he sat down to tea 
in company with his wife, lifted up a newspaper, and, at 
the first glance he gave to it, burst out into an immoder- 
ate fit of laughter, which for some moments he was un- 
able to control, although pressed by his wife to explain 
the cause. 

A round of good hearty laughter is often infectious ; 
it was so in this instance, for Mrs. O’Meara also laughed 
heartily, and her husband laughed again and again at 
his wife, who was utterly ignorant of the cause of his 
merriment. At length he managed to read from the pa- 
per he held in his hand the report of a case of Breach 
of Promise of Marriage, headed— 

CLARKSON versus SOOKES. 

Damages were laid at $5000, and the jury, without re- 


206 


The Lost Rosary. 

tiring, brought in a verdict for $100. The judge in giv- 
ing his award jocosely remarked that the majority of 
mothers would rather give their daughters a few hun- 
dred dollars as a marriage present, than seek to injure a 
son-in-law, as the plaintiff had done in that case. 

“ He’s none of my son-in-law,” said Mrs. Clarkson. “ I 
disacknowledge him for ever and ever ; ” saying which, 
that much aggrieved, much injured lady, left the court. 

The after career of Mrs. Clarkson was somewhat re- 
markable. She and Miss Longbow became fast friends, 
after a fashion. United in their scheme, they managed 
to make the place too hot for the Rev. Ebenezer Sookes ; 
so that worthy, who married the daughter instead of the 
mother, betook himself and his blushing bride to pas- 
tures new. Many were the stratagems he was forced to 
adopt in order to obtain a livelihood. At one time he 
was a doctor ; but, as he never managed to cure any one, 
he changed from that profession to a lecturer, when he 
was oftener treated to “ a beggarly array of empty box- 
es” than to audiences. After some years had passed, he 
obtained the pardon of his sister, who was rather well 
off in the world, and who assisted him by her influence 
and her money to obtain the charge of a small congre- 
gation, almost similar in character to the one he held at 
the time of his marriage. Nelly Clarkson, or, rather, 
Mrs. Sookes, never regretted her apostasy. 

When Moll Hanley came to hear all that happened in 
“ Naiser ”Nookes’ house, she blessed God that He had tak- 
en poor Jenny to Himself before that poor girl became 
scandalized at the conduct of her sister, and the evil 
courses of her mother. 

An abiding friendship sprang up between Mrs. Clark- 
son and a number of women formerly benefitted by the 
ministrations of the Rev. Ebenezer Sookes. These formed 
themselves into an association for the advocacy of Wom- 
an’s Rights. Miss Longbow was induced to become act- 


207 


The Lost Rosary. 

ing secretary, or secretaryess, to the society, and if the 
disappointment in love matters, which many of the mem- 
bers had suffered at the hands of thoughtless men, hurt 
them, they took their revenge in creating a good deal of 
noise in society. 

Mrs. Clarkson made vast improvements in picking up 
the usual phrases used among her companions. She 
dressed as well as her circumstances permitted, and for 
a long time indulged the vain hope that chance or some- 
thing else would throw another Ebenezer in her way. 
But the fates opposed her wishes, and she took her re- 
venge accordingly, in denouncing men as “ unprincipled 
demons,” “ tyrants of the first and second water,” and 
“ irrational beings,” who were as far below the sex of 
which she was a burning light and an ornament, as the 
earth was below the heavens. 

These women continued to get others as dissatisfied 
as themselves. They never could induce a good, edu- 
cated lady, married or unmarried, to mount rostrums 
with them — to join them in the propagation of their 
disgusting principles, seeking to break up the holiest 
bonds that hold society together, and mouthing their in- 
famous doctrines to the disadvantage of decent, quiet 
women, who would suffer martyrdom rather than join 
with or encourage those whose poor vanity urges them 
into such deplorable exhibitions of themselves, making 
modesty blush at their pretensions, and elevating the 
loud-tongued to the disgust of all reasonable people, 
and to none more so than to ladies themselves. 

In private, the “ ladies ” of this modern cabal prove 
themselves, as a rule, to be no better than Mrs. Clarkson, 
or Miss Longbow, whose early life, if I had time to make 
it known, would go some way in accounting for the pro- 
clivities of that loud spinster. 

******** 

It was Saturday night, and Alick McSweeney was be- 


208 


The Lost Rosary. 

liind his usual time in coming home. His good wife 
wondered much at his absence. It was so unusual for 
Alick to remain out of his own house beyond the ap- 
pointed time of his return. Not that Mrs. McSweeney 
begrudged Alick a spare hour when he wanted it, but 
that careful woman was afraid that something had hap- 
pened to her husband. In the midst of her cogitations, 
the “ man of the house ” made his appearance in com- 
pany with a friend. 

There was an extraordinary sort of a twinkle in Alick’s 
eyes as he entered. 

“ Where have you been, and what in all the world kept 
you till this hour, Alick ? ” inquired his better half. 

“ Well, old girl, as to where I have been, it’s little use 
telling you, for I don’t think you would know ; as to 
what kept me, that’s another thing, and as I always make 
it a practice to tell my wife the cause of my absence — 
not that I require to do so, but just ” 

“Just what, now, Alick?” said his good-natured wife. 

“ Why just that I think it right to let her know.” 

“ Well, then, let me hear all about it.” 

“ That’s just what I would rather keep you in suspense 
about, for awhile,” said Alick. 

“ Oh, botheration,” said Mrs. McSweeney, with a pret- 
ty little pout upon her lips. 

“Well, botheration be it.” 

“I’ll tell you, myself,” said the stranger, “ if he don’t 
be quick about it. We were ” 

“ That’ll do, now,” said Alick. 

“ Well, go on, yourself, if it’s not a secret.” 

“Who do you think did I see this evening?” said 
Alick, looking earnestly at his wife. 

“ Gracious me ! how could I tell.” 

“ Well, guess.” 

“ Really, I am sure I don’t know, Alick.” 


209 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ Well, not to keep you longer waiting,— for 1 know 
wliat punishment it is to a woman to have her curiosity 
aroused, and not to gratify her as quickly as possible — ” 

“ Well, out with it,” said Mrs. McSweeney, sharply. 

“ There it is now. I told you how it would be,” said 
her husband, evidently enjoying the growing uneasiness 
of his wife. 

“ Oh, bless you, keep it ; I’m sure I’m not caring one 
straw, Alick, either where you were, in whose company 
you have been, who you saw, or anything else.” 

Alick enjoyed a good laugh, and then straightening 
himself up in his seat, said, “ Well, I saw Tim Heggarty 
and Barney McAuley, and ” 

“ You don’t say so ! ” said Mrs. McSweeney, completely 
thrown off her guard in the matter of her womanish 
anxiety to know all about the little secret. 

“ But I do say so,” continued Alick, “ and I say more, 
I saw their two sweethearts, Mary and Ailey O’Don- 
nell ” 

“Eh! what?” cried out Mrs. McSweeney. 

“ Oh, if you won’t listen, I’m sure I’m not bound to go 
on.” 

“ But I’m listening with both ears,” insisted Alick’s 
wife. 

“ Aye, and talking at the same time,” retorted Alick. 
“ However, I saw both the boys and their girls ; and now 
open your mouth wide, wide, wider. Both you and your 
husband — that’s myself, I suppose — are cordially invited 
to both their weddings.” 

“ Both their weddings ! ” exclaimed the astonished wife 
of Alick McSweeney. 

“ I have said it.” 

“ But don’t you remember, Alick dear, that I men- 
tioned to you before about Ailey and Tim being second 
cousins ? ” 

“ I remembered all about it, and spoke of it at once,” 

14 


210 


The Lost Rosary . 

replied her husband ; “ and, by my word, it stunned both 
of the young men. I soon got the matter all explained. 
You meant the O’Donnells of the Grange, but Ailey 
isn’t a drop’s blood to one of them.” 

“ Then I’m so glad,” she repeated ; “ for that matter 
was lying heavy at my heart ever since the first moment 
I learned the name from Tim himself.” 

“ Oh, it’s all right ; and now, good wife, get that green 
silk dress made up at once, for the double marriage 
comes off on Monday next, at 12 o’clock. There’s a pow- 
er of quality to bo there, and dear knows who besides.” 

Mrs. McSweeney promised her readiness independent- 
ly of the “ quality,” and so matters were arranged in that 
household that Mr. and Mrs. McSweeney should attend 
the marriage of “ Bernard McAuley, Esq., to Mary, only 
daughter of the late Cornelius O’Donnell, of Maghera- 
more, Clonmany, County Donegal, Ireland ; ” also of 
“ Timothy Heggarty, Esq., to Ailey O’Donnell, cousin of 
the first bride, at the same time and place.” 


The Lost Rosary. 


211 


CHAPTER XXX. 

WEDDINGS BY THE PAIR — A PAIR OF WEDDINGS. 

“ They loved each other 
With a full and holy love, — 

Years but ripened it 
Into perfection.” 

Mrs. McSweeney was very glad and very happy to at- 
tend the invitation offered her, and especially as she had 
got her mind relieved of that very sad burden. 

The happy day at length arrived that was to witness a 
double marriage. Mr. and Mrs. O’Meara insisted that 
the weddings should be held in their house. This they 
did in honor of a good and faithful servant, or, rather, 
servants, for, although Ailey had been only a short time 
in her new place, yet short as the time was, she had prov- 
ed her goodness of disposition, and her trustworthiness 
as a companion to Mrs. O’Meara, to entitle her to the re- 
spect shown to her on the part of those with whom she 
had lately resided. 

“ And remember,” said Mr. O’Meara to Tim and Barney, 
“ I shall not feel happy as I otherwise would, if you re- 
frain from inviting all your friends just in the same man- 
ner as if your marriage festivities were held in any other 
place.” 

Both Barney and Tim returned their cordial thanks 
for the honor conferred on them. 

Alick McSweeney and his wife, together with Moll 
Hanley and Mrs. McGlone, were the only parties invited. 
Barney’s master was spoken to for that purpose also, but 


212 


The Lost Rosary. 

his previous engagements did not permit him the pleas- 
ure of being present. 

In plainer terms, the previous engagements consisted 
of buying a neat little farm that adjoined his own, and 
concerning the purchase of which negotiations had been 
entered into before, on behalf of Barney McAuley. 
Barney had not sufficient funds to bring the bargain to 
a close. His master knew that, and now seeing the turn 
affairs had taken, determined to show his appreciation 
of Barney’s past services by having a surprise for the 
newly married couple, and a surprise it really was ; one, 
too, the indebtedness of which was never forgotten by 
Bernard McAuley, nor his wife, and every dollar of which 
was repaid with scrupulous exactness by him in whose 
behalf the kind action was performed. 

If Irish girls are seldom wanting in gratitude, neither 
are Irish boys, and especially those of them like our 
honest fellows, Barney McAuley and Tim Heggarty. 

“ Invited to a weddin’ !” said Moll Hanley, “ an’ in sich 
a house as Mr. O’Meara’s. Faith, an’ it’s myself has the 
right to be a proud woman, and you, too, Mrs. McGlone. 
Only to think of it, both of us seein’ them two dacent 
fellows cornin’ over in the ship with us, an’ their kind- 
ness in attendin’ to the poor dyin’ farmer. Och, to be 
sure, any one could have told that there was luck an’ 
grace afore both of them.” 

“ An’ are you actually determined to go ? ” asked Mrs. 
McGlone. 

“ Arrah, is it fun you’re makin’ ? ” replied Moll ; “ would 
you have me to disgrace myself, and them too, by keep- 
in’ away at such a time ? Not I, indeed.” 

“I don’t think I’ll go,” said Mrs. McGlone; but I’m 
afraid that good woman said so either in order to tor- 
ment Moll, or for the purpose of seeing if she could 
make her forego the pleasure of being present at the 
wedding. 


213 


The Lost Rosary. 

“ Troth, an’ you’ll go every inch of the way, an’ take 
part in the bit of fun, so you will,” said Moll, very de- 
terminedly. 

“ An’ who’ll keep the house open ? ” asked Mrs. Mc- 
Glone. “Kelly Koonan must be present, you say, an’ 
how can I go ? ” 

“ The easiest way is the best way,” maintained Moll 
Hanley, “an’ that’s just to clqse the door dacently; an’, 
indeed, I’m not sure but it’s in a carriage we should go.” 

“ Ho, ho !” cried* Moll’s companion, “ridin’ in a car- 
riage, indeed ; well, I’m sure I never ! ” 

“ Well, then, let us walk dacently, but go we’ll go ; ” 
and they did go. 

The happy morning arrived that was to witness Mary 
O’Donnell and Ailey O’Donnell stand before the altar of 
God to pledge their troth, in fidelity and sanctity, to Bar- 
ney McAuley and Tim Heggarty. The young women 
were beautifully dressed in plain white dresses. Mrs. 
O’Meara had superintended that portion of the business, 
and was proud to find the taste of the girls in keeping 
with her own. 

Barney McAuley was “ smiles all over,” as Moll Han- 
ley afterwards described him. Tim was even paler than 
usual, and Barney maintained that the change in Tim 
arose from the presence of Mr. and Mrs. O’Meara. The 
clergyman who performed the marriage service was a 
special friend of the O’Mearas, and the same for whom 
Tim had become “ collector,” from the first few weeks 
after he had landed in Kew York. 

Mass was said specially for the occasion, and after all 
was over, the clergyman was induced by Mrs. O’Meara 
to join the wedding party. 

That w as a party ; pleasant and joyful in the highest 
degree. Song, story, and sentiment, fun and frolic “ till 
it was all hours ; ” and when Mrs. McGlone quietly hint- 
ed to Moll Hanley that it was time to retire, the latter 


214 


The Lost Rosary. 

surprised all present by stoutly maintaining that Mrs. 
McGlone might go home if she felt so inclined, but for 
her own part “ a step she wouldn’t budge from where 
she was until the whole affair broke up.” 

Mrs. McGlone was half horrified at Moll’s blunt man- 
ner. She had conveyed her hint in a sort of whisper, 
and did not intend that others should know what she 
meant. A good hearty roar of laughter followed the an- 
nouncement of Moll Hanley’s determination. Barney 
McAuley danced with Mrs. O’Meara. Tim danced with 
Moll Hanley, Mr. O’Meara had the iionor of “ leading 
out” both brides in turn, and, to crown everything, Moll’s 
health was proposed, in fine flowing terms, as one of the 
truest-hearted women in America. Moll was near crying 
at hearing herself spoken of in such a manner, and be- 
fore such fine company. Tim Heggarty responded for 
Moll, and Alick McSweeney could not resist the tempta- 
tion of following in the same line, although it soon be- 
came evident that the last speaker wished for an oppor- 
tunity to speak in terms of praise of Mrs. McSweeney. 
The trick was easily seen through, and Alick’s wife col- 
ored deeply as the tongue of her husband unloosed 
itself in her praise. It was a small fault, if fault it 
could be called. 

******* 

And now, good reader, permit me to drop the scene 
for a few minutes, and to raise it again after an imagin- 
ary lapse of nearly twenty years. 

Mr. O’Meara had induced Tim Heggarty to join his 
fortune with Barney McAuley. The latter did so, and 
continued for three years an inmate of Barney’s house. 
There was a particular happiness thus afforded to Mary 
and Alley, who, although very anxious that Tim should 
take Mr. O’Meara’s advice, yet did not venture their 
opinion in a matter of such moment. 


215 


The Lost Rosary. 

A slight estrangement took place between Barney and 
Tim, that caused them to be well laughed at by Mrs. 
McAuley and Mrs. Heggarty. Tim had laid a wager 
with Barney, that Mary’s first child would be a girl. Tim 
won, and insisted on full payment of the wager, which 
consisted of a dress to Moll Hanley and one to Mrs. Mc- 
Glone. Barney did not begrudge the fulfilment of the 
wager, but he did feel considerably piqued at Tim win- 
ning, for he had determined to call his first-born after 
Timothy Heggarty. He could not readily do that, so he 
did the next best thing — he called the child Maey — and 
its mother hung a Rosary around its neck at the time 
of baptism. The young woman who stood sponsor for 
little Mary McAuley was from the same part of Ireland 
that Mrs. McAuley was from. When she saw the Rosary 
around the child’s neck she trembled, and got as pale as 
death. The clergyman observed her, and instantly 
placed her in a seat. She was soon enabled to describe 
the cause of her excitement. A lady met her one even- 
ing when coming from the Sunday-school at the Old 
Chapel of Clonmany, and presented her with the same 
Rosary, which the lady had found lying on the road. She 
accepted it, and preserved it afterwards. During her 
sickness in a public hospital, a young woman endeavor- 
ed to take it from her, but she resisted the attempt, and 
succeeded in retaining it. One evening when walking 
through a cemetery at New York, she knelt down at a 
grave to repeat a prayer. At the head of the grave 
stood a beautiful Cross of sculptured marble, and inscrib- 
ed with one word, “ Mother.” It was that which had 
attracted her. There she had lost her beads, and never 
saw them till that moment. Mary had never mentioned 
the loss of the Rosary to her husband. She had con- 
sulted Ailey on the same matter, and she gave it as her 
opinion that “ it would neither do good nor harm in not 
speaking of the loss.” Mary had some childish feeling 


216 


The Lost Rosary. 

that if Barney knew that she had lost the Rosary that 
belonged to his mother, he might probably look up- 
on her as careless, and so the matter had passed away 
until revived by the circumstance here related. 

Tim Heggarty and his wife had heard of the whole oc- 
currence, and it is right to state that when both of the 
men had learned the particulars of Mary’s heroic con- 
duct in attending on strangers in the fever hospital, that 
their admiration of the noble girl was a thousand fold 
increased. 

Both Mary and Ailey had long since made known the 
chief trials and difficulties both had undergone since the 
time when Barney and Tim had sailed for America ; but 
whatever related to their heroism they studiously with- 
held. They did not do so from any desire to keep any- 
thing secret, but from a principle of innate modesty. 
Both had known themselves to be faithful and true in 
small things, but did not care to blazon forth such 
things, even to their husbands. They were right. 

“ Give that poor fellow a few days’ work,” said Tim 
to Barney one morning. 

“ No ; hang me, Tim, if I can get over the scoundrel’s 
villany.” 

“ Do you call that manly or fair ? ” asked Tim. 

“Don’t bother me now about what is fair or manly. 
He did a thing that caused many a pang to you and me, 
and to others whom we both devoutly love, and I never 
can forgive him.” 

“Nonsense! ” said Tim. “The affair is past and gone, 
and forgiveness is a glorious bit of revenge. Come, Bar- 
ney, let us forget his past errors. Give me your hand, 
old boy; our luck has been good; it won’t lose anything 
in future by forgetting the misdeeds of the poor fellow, 
especially as things came all right afterwards.” 

Barney had to yield. It was not Tim’s powers of per- 
suasion, so much as that hint that “things came all 
right afterwards.” 


217 


The Lost Rosary. 

This conversation took place in regard to an unfortu- 
nate Irishman whom Barney and Tim had taken a lik- 
ing to shortly after their arrival, and to whom they had 
entrusted the small matter of posting letters homeward. 
After Barney’s marriage, he had learned that the letters 
sent to Mary and Ailey had been destroyed, for the pur- 
pose of retaining the small amount of postage given with 
each letter. 

It is right to state that Mary and Ailey felt this mat- 
ter even more keenly than did either Barney or Tim ; 
but all was past, and their tender hearts were the ablest 
seconders of Tim’s proposal that the affair should be 
forgotten. 

Barney yielded, and lived to prove the future fidelity 
of him who had thus been the cause of many a bitter 
sorrow to those whose love for each other had been 
broken by such petty means. 

Time rolled on, and Moll Hanley became proprietor of 
the boarding-house formerly owned by her and Mrs. 
McGlone. Moll’s companion was dead and buried, and 
Nelly Noonan, the innocent cause of much trouble to 
“Helen” Clarkson (long since Mrs. Sookes), became the 
inseparable companion of Moll Hanley, who, although 
advanced in years, appeared to hang together so well, 
that those who knew her prophesied that Moll wouldn’t 
die as long as she could help it. 

Mr. and ifrrs. O’Meara had long since betaken them- 
selves to quiet repose. Little Mary had grown to be a 
fine young lady. Father and mother were very fond of 
her, and the daughter was fond of both. She came to 
learn the sad history of Alice McG-rain, and Mary’s heart 
turned warmly towards God. She became a Sister of 
Mercy, and, during the late American war, “ Sister Gene- 
vieve ” might have been seen on the battle-fields of Vir- 
ginia, attending the wounded and dying, with a warmth 
of devotion that Catholic Faith could alone inspire. 


218 


The Lost Rosary. 

Tim Heggarty had a fine family of one hoy. 

Barney Me Auley had a finer family of nine children ; 
and, in his humorous moments, when tormented by 
Tim Heggarty, used to say that he had a family of some 
ten or eleven children — “ Mary could tell the exact num- 
ber, but he was hanged if he could tell the half of them.” 


CONCLUSION. 

“ Good-mobitcng, O’Leary.” 

“ Good-morning, Mac.” 

“ Still at work, I see.” 

“Well, I’m just finishing that story that your con- 
founded impudence induced me to undertake.” 

“ You flatter me, old boy.” 

“ Well, believe me, Mac, I hadn’t the slightest inten- 
tion of committing such an act as flattering you” 

“ Have you considered the right of women to advocate 
their rights ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then you’ll agree with me, that Miss Longbow was 
pursuing a wise and proper course in coming boldly be- 
fore the public, and threatening to strike at the root of 
those forms of society that keep women in the back- 
ground of the world, and give to men the supremacy of 
race ? ” 

“ I happen to know Miss Longbow’s antecedents, and 
I can assure you that her present course is chiefly dic- 
tated by revenge. She was disappointed in marriage, 
and then turned her attention to the abuse of that state 
at which she unfortunately could not arrive.” 

“ And you are really of that opinion ? ” 

“ Most decidedly.” 

“ At all events, I hope you have acted fairly towards 


The Lost Rosary. 219 

the sex, O’Leary. It would be very ungallant of an Irish- 
man to do otherwise.” 

“ Trust me, Mac. I’m all right there. I have acted 
fairly enough towards one and all. I have shown by a 
kind of negative process the way to win ‘Women’s 
Eights,’ as they are falsely termed.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“I mean that I have shown the good side and bad side 
of ordinary female character in America, that in adher- 
ing to a line of truth as the basis of a story, I have, I 
hope, managed to point out ways to go and ways to avoid, 
especially for those new to the place.” 

“ And is that your way of cutting up the Woman’s 
Eights Association ? ” 

“ The very way. There are more ways of killing a dog 
than by hanging him.” 

“ Yes, I know ; but I thought you would have gone 
more directly to that work.” 

“ Show a woman what we men admire most in another 
woman, and a thousand chances to one she will perform 
that which we admire. Prove to them that the sweet, 
retiring nature of modesty wins upon us, and conquers 
us, and she will quit her brawling and screaming on pub- 
lic platforms.” 

“ Faith, I think you are right there.” 

“ I have drawn some characters of a truly noble nature, 
such as I have known them, who suffered much, and 
only got purified the more they suffered. Their faith 
and hope never failed them, and they lived to enjoy life, 
and to do good to others, both by their own example and 
otherwise.” 

“I know to whom you allude. By-the-by, O’Leary, 
pitch nonsense overboard, and obtain an introduction 
for me to Miss McAuley.” 

“ Are you serious, Mac ? ” 

“ Quite serious, I assure you.” 


220 


The Lost Rosary . 

“ But consider your refined tastes and habits, and then 
think of that red-faced girl, and her arms the color of 
carrots.” 

“ Oh, nonsense ! you understand me perfectly well.” 

I knew Mac’s good heart after all, and procured him 
an invitation to Miss Mary Me Auley ; as sweet and as 
handsome a young lady as ever passed before your eyes. 
She was rather tall, but her every movement indicated 
the woman of worth, the lady of mind, tender and time 
in her character, the idol of her happy parents, the be- 
loved of her family. Her mother did not thank me for 
my interference. It resulted in a marriage; and Mrs. 
McAuley gave a sly glance at me one morning when I 
called and complimented her on being a grandmother. 

She knew that I was aware of the whole history of her 
life, — and that when I then spoke to her she was the 
equal, in point of worldly wealth and social position, to 
any lady around her. 

Tim Heggarty and his wife Ailey were a happy pair. 
The good acts performed by them would fill a volume. 
Patrick Hegarty, their only son, was just ordained a 
priest in time to celebrate the marriage ceremony be- 
tween my friend Mac and his beautiful young wife. I 
was present at the wedding, having left my old machine 
of an arm-chair for that very thing, and kept this story 
unfinished for the purpose of recounting that important 
event. During the festivities, we had many a joke, and 
many a happy word to say about our Irish girls. “ Here’s 
success attend them, one and all,” were the last words I 
heard at the wedding. Inwardly I said — A at f.iv- 


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